


Sunrise, Wyoming

by goandgetthegun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Brotherly Affection, Canon Divergence - Frontierland, Copious Amounts of Bathtub Scenes, Denial of Feelings, Domestic, Episode: s06e18 Frontierland, Fluff, Guilty Sam, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Sharing a Bed, Sheriff Dean, Sick Sam Winchester, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tension, Western, frontierland, mentions of Dean/Lisa - Freeform, mentions of Sam/Jess - Freeform, past relationship, unrequited elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goandgetthegun/pseuds/goandgetthegun
Summary: The clock tower strikes twelve-noon in Sunrise, Wyoming. Dean killed the phoenix and has the ashes in hand, ready to return to 2011 with Sam and stop Eve.Only problem is Cas never shows.Now they’re stuck in 1861. They have to learn how to live and survive in the unforgiving old-west with no one to count on but each other.Fic Playlist Here | Fic Inspo Tag Here





	1. March 6, 1861 - March 7, 1861

**Author's Note:**

> I put a lot of effort into this story, like more effort than anything I've ever written, but it's still a work in progress. Thank you for giving it a chance and I really hope you enjoy the road so far.
> 
> I would like to thank [brokenlittleboy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy) and [NaughtyPastryChef](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef) for helping me out with editing and inspiration, I wouldn't have got it started without them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story picks up right after Dean kills the phoenix at the end of the episode "Frontierland" (6.18) but explores an alternate route, parallel to canon.

**March 6, 1861: Sunrise, Wyoming**

The clock tower strikes twelve-noon.

The tolling of the bell echos through the empty street as Dean races toward the smoldering heap in front of him. With every ring, their last hope of stopping Eve slips further through his empty hands. Time seems to slow, the sound of his boots hitting the packed earth pounds in his ears with each step as he pushes himself to close the distance before they run out of time. He dives to his knees, sliding through dirt and rocks as he comes to a stop. Sam rushes into the street to meet him, watching as Dean shoves black ash into the glass bottle with shaking hands.

“You did it,” Dean hears Sam say quietly and he can barely believe it himself. Nervous sweat drips down the back of his neck, leaving clean trails in the layer of dirt covering his skin as he fills the last of the bottle. The clock tower suddenly quiets, the last ring echos out through the rolling hills. An eerie silence surrounds them as townspeople start to emerge from the buildings at the edges of the street. Dean looks up at Sam with a satisfied smile, finally feeling like he can breathe again. Everything comes down to this moment. He shoves the cork into the bottle as he stands, ready to be pulled back to their time. 

A breeze blows through the hushed street, kicking up a cloud of ash as they wait. Looking out through the crowd wide eyes stare back, worried parents hold their children close and no one says a word. Dean looks up at the clock tower, the hands read almost two minutes past twelve. Cas should have grabbed them by now. 

“Something’s wrong.” 

Sam’s voice pulls Dean away from his thoughts. “What the hell does that mean?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow as he looks up at Sam from under the brim of his hat, “‘something’s wrong’ as in we’re stuck in _Frontierland_?” Cas words of warning swim through his clouded mind and twist his stomach into knots. Dean’s only concern was getting the ash in time to get out of here, he never considered they might not actually get out at all. Cas always comes through in the end.

Sam shakes his head as he shrugs, “something must’ve happened.”

Dean’s stomach sinks further. “Dammit, Cas,” he growls as he shoves the glass bottle into the inside pocket of his duster, “you had one job.”

“Hey, can we, uh,” Sam says, his voice quiet but urgent as he nods toward the crowd around them, “figure this out later?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. Sam is right, the last thing they need now is trouble. “Let’s get out of here.” Sam takes hold of Dean’s arm and pulls him to follow. After a few feet, Dean picks up the discarded Colt lying in the dirt and brushes it off before tucking it into his gun belt as Sam leads him toward the north end of town. 

“It’s just a hitch in the plan,” Dean says, shaking his head as he tries to convince himself as much as Sam with his words, “Cas’ll show.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “yeah, he’ll show.” Dean can hear the poorly hidden lack of confidence in Sam’s voice and it doesn’t help the sick feeling in his gut. “He has to,” Sam adds, looking over to Dean with a soft smile that’s supposed to be reassuring but falls miles short. 

“What do we do now?” Dean asks after a few steps in silence. 

“Colt’s?” Sam suggests, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s as they walk side by side. The home of a fellow hunter, Dean figures, is their best bet for a safe spot for them to gather their bearings. Even if he is little more than a stranger. 

“Sounds good,” Dean says and Sam nods in agreement. 

After a few feet Sam says, “I guess we’re going to have to get you a horse,” as he looks over to Dean, breaking the tension with the an elbow to Dean’s arm. Even with the stress of the situation looming over him, Dean can’t help the tiny twinge of excitement he feels at the chance of fulfilling another of his childhood dreams.

“Looks like,” Dean nods, his lips curling up into a crooked smile as he follows Sam toward the Blacksmith’s shop at the edge of town. Thick coal smoke and the smell of hot metal hang heavy in the air around the small, three sided wooden building. Dean can feel the heat radiating from the furnace as he steps into the dark interior. 

“Hey, kid!” He calls out to the apprentice working alone in the back of the building. His clothes and face are smudged black with soot and he doesn’t look like he could be much more than fifteen. 

“Yeah?” The boy answers as he sets his tools down on the wooden table next to him. “What can I do for you?” He takes his cap off and wipes a clean stripe through the sweat across his brow with it. 

“We’re looking to buy horse,” Dean says, “got any?” The boy is quiet for a moment, looking them over with narrow eyes as Dean waits for his answer, then he nods.

“Can pro’lly work somethin’ out for you,” he says as he spits onto the dirt floor in front of him. He leads them to a crude barn behind the shop, they walk past a few empty stalls before the boy stops. “This here was the old Sheriff’s horse,” he says, standing in front of a stall at the back containing a bay dun gelding. “He ain’t been claimed yet, so he’s yours if he’ll do for you.” 

“I think he’ll do just fine,” Dean nods with a smile as he reaches out to rub the horse’s dark black muzzle.  
.

  


It is well past dark by the time they reach their destination. The trip was quiet for the most part, both of them lost in thoughts as they rode across miles of empty plains. Stopping every so often to let the horses drink from streams as they wait. 

“This is it,” Sam says quietly as they ride into the clearing. The light of the almost full moon illuminates everything with soft blue light, casting shadows through the cottonwoods surrounding them. As they dismount, the wind rushes through the leaves, enveloping them in an unsettling silence between gusts. Goosebumps spread on Dean’s skin as he pulls his duster tighter, shielding himself against the cold. In front of him sits the lonely cabin of Samuel Colt, a man Dean grew up hearing stories of, a legend in the flesh. 

“Colt?” Sam calls out into the darkness, “it’s Sam Winchester, don’t shoot!” Dean puffs out breaths into the air as he looks around them. The sky above is littered with innumerable shining stars and he can see the faint cloudy arm of the Milky Way stretching across the vast emptiness. Thinking back, he can’t remember the last time he saw this many stars. As the wind blows through again, the leaves around them shimmer in the moonlight as a lone cricket sings somewhere nearby. It’s almost peaceful. 

“We’ve got your gun!” Sam’s voice breaks the silence again. The leather of Dean’s glove squeaks against his reins as he adjusts his grip, every small sound amplified in the overwhelming silence. 

Without warning, the door to the cabin swings open and Samuel steps out with the business end of a rifle pointed straight at them. Dean, taken aback by the sudden movement, throws his hands out in front of him. 

“Whoa!” He says as he holds his hands out in surrender, “hey now.” 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Samuel growls, “I oughta shoot the both of you on principle.” 

“We didn’t know where else to go,” Sam admits, lowering his hands as Dean watches him. For a moment, Samuel looks them over in silence then lowers his rifle and steps to the side. 

“Well, come on,” he growls, “before something hears you.” Dean lets out a sigh of relief as he looks over to Sam, silently confirming with him before turning to unsaddle his horse. Inside the cabin, they drop their things onto the floor by the door. Warmth and soft orange light radiates from the wood burning stove in the far corner. Dean takes in his surroundings, in one corner is what you could call a kitchen, there is a counter and a wash basin under a lone cabinet. Next to that is a desk strewn with papers and books. Closest to him is a small bed with it’s quilts tossed to the side, beneath it he can make out a protective sigil painted onto the floor boards. 

“This is my brother, Dean,” Sam says as he shuts the door behind them. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Dean says with a smile, “I’m a,” he lets out a small laugh, “a big fan.” 

“Bully,” Samuel grunts as he plops down into the wooden chair behind the desk. 

“Thank you,” Sam says as he takes his hat off, “really.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Samuel says with a nod as he sits up, “you boys hungry?” He asks, holding up a half empty bottle of amber liquid. 

“Yes,” Dean answers with a grin. 

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head as Dean steps forward, “I’m good, thank you.” 

“You’re good?” Samuel asks, pulling a second glass down from the shelf behind him, “you some kind of puritan or something?” Dean snorts as he looks over to Sam. 

“No, sir,” Sam huffs out a laugh, “no, I just meant no thank you,” he explains as Samuel pours Dean’s drink. 

“You should have just said that then,” Samuel says as he hands Dean his glass. Dean takes it and brings it to his nose, it burns as he smells it. 

“Sam here, sometimes he just doesn’t enjoy the finer things in life,” Dean smirks, “like sharing a drink with _the_ Samuel Colt.” he glances over at Sam, who is glaring at him from the other side of the room. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, Sammy,” Dean grins. Sam rolls his eyes as Dean holds out his glass to him in cheers then takes a sip. It feels like it ignites in his throat and his stomach is on fire. Dean puts his hand on his hip to brace himself as he coughs while Sam laughs. He feels the gun still tucked into his holster and swallows hard. “Oh!” He manages to choke out, “I believe this is yours,” he says as he pulls the Colt out of his belt and sets it on the desk and slides it toward Samuel. 

“You get your phoenix?” Samuel asks as he picks up the gun and turns in over in his hands. 

“We did,” Sam says as he sits in one of the chairs against the wall near the stove, “but it didn’t matter, which is why we’re still here.” 

“Our ride didn’t show,” Dean admits as he takes another sip, this time smaller. 

“Figured as much,” Samuel says, setting the gun back on the desk in front of him, his chair squeaks as he leans back. “Well, you boys are welcome to sleep here for the night, I trust the floor will be adequate,” he says, gesturing to the rug next to his desk. 

“Thank you,” Sam says again and Dean nods in agreement, grateful for Samuel’s hospitality. 

“You can get a plan together in the morning,” Samuel says as he stands. Dean takes his hat off and sets it on the floor next to he desk, then pulls his duster off and wads it into a makeshift pillow. 

“Wait,” Sam grins, pointing to the brass star pinned to Dean’s vest, “does that say _Sheriff_?” 

“What?” Dean asks, looking down to where Sam is pointing, he completely forgot Elkins gave him the badge. “Oh, yeah,” he answers with a grin, “it does.” 

“They made you Sheriff?” Sam laughs in disbelief. 

“Yeah, after the last one got fried,” Dean says, looking down at the badge fondly. 

“Dean Winchester: Sheriff of Wild West Town,” Sam grins as he takes his jacket off, “that’s like a wet dream for you, isn’t it?” 

Dean doesn’t have to admit it, Sam knows he’s right. Watching Elkins pin that badge on his chest made him feel ten years old again. Sitting cross legged on the floor to catch old westerns on TV after school, wishing he could leave all the darkness and fear of their lives behind and be a cowboy. Spending warm, sunshine filled days riding the plains of the American West, and sit by a crackling fire on cool, star lit nights. To wear a white hat and uphold peace and justice as one of the good guys. 

That was, until the clock tower struck noon and it all became too real. 

“Shut up,” Dean says, unbuckling his gun belt, “you jealous?” He asks as he sets it on the floor next to his hat with the dull thud of metal against wood. 

“No,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he readies his bed for the night, “that’s all you, man.” 

Neither of them sleep much that night. Dean lays still for what feels like hours, staring up at the flickering orange fire light dancing with the shadows on the ceiling above him. He goes over the events of the day again and again, wondering if it was something he did wrong, or if maybe something happened to Cas. Through it all, the comforting touch of his hand resting against Sam’s warm leg relaxes him. He ghosts his fingers absentmindedly against the denim as he thinks until finally, he closes his eyes and drifts to sleep knowing that he is not alone in this. 

No matter what happens, they will make it out of this together. That he’s sure of. 

  


**March 7, 1861**

“There has to be something we’re missing,” Dean insists as he shovels a forkful of fried egg into his mouth. They have been over what happened three times already that morning, going over every last detail with Samuel as they helped him with breakfast. 

“Something had to have happened to Cas and he couldn’t make it,” Sam says, shaking his head as he stares down at his tin cup. “He and Bobby are probably working on a way to find us right now.” Dean looks down at his food as Sam takes a sip of black coffee. “He’s pulled some pretty miraculous shit before,” Sam continues, “I wouldn’t put it past him to figure something out.” 

“What about heaven?” Dean asks, looking up at Sam suddenly. Sam shrugs and shakes his head, waiting for him to elaborate. “If one of us, you know,” Dean makes a shooting motion at his head, “bites the bullet, we can get a hold of him there.” 

“That’s if he’s even in heaven, and that’s not exactly something I’m willing to risk, Dean,” Sam says, furrowing his brow, “and besides, they’re in the middle of angel civil war up there, that’s not something I really want to see.” 

“Okay,” Dean huffs, sitting back against his chair as he crosses his arms, “well then, Einstein, what do you think we should do?” 

“Sit tight,” Sam says firmly, “wait it out. If he can, he’ll come to us. At least here he knows when and where we are.” 

“What?” Dean asks, sitting up again, “and meanwhile everyone we know dies when Eve monster nukes the world?” His stomach drops as he says the words, his thoughts drift to the people who are counting on them. Lisa and Ben are out there, alone with no one to protect them while monsters run wild. They could be ripped to shreds, torn apart while they scream for help and he isn’t there to answer. Or worse. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, studying him silently as Dean swallows back the lump in his throat. 

“Bobby will-” Sam’s voice is soft and sympathetic as he lays a hand on Dean’s leg, it should make Dean feel better but it only makes him want to hit him. 

“Why don’t you just send it to them,” Samuel’s voice comes from the desk, cutting in before Dean can respond. 

“What?” Dean asks, grateful for the change in subject as they both look over to Samuel. 

“Leave the package for them at the post office,” Samuel says without looking up from his work. Dean glances over to Sam as he goes over the idea in his head. 

“If we put Bobby’s address and a date on it-” Sam starts then lets out an impressed huff. 

“It might work,” Dean says excitedly. “If we drop it off now, in their time they’ll get it now,” he pauses looking down at his plate for a moment, “right?” 

“Hey, you’re the Star Trek time travel expert, remember?” Sam laughs. 

“Samuel Colt,” Dean says with a grin as he turns back to Samuel, “you are a goddamn genius.”


	2. March 8, 1861

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean head back into town to leave the package for Bobby, but end up finding what could be a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild gore.

**March 8, 1861**

They head out for the long ride back to town before sunrise the next morning. Sam shivers against the frigid air as he pulls his light canvas jacket tighter around himself. He flexes the aching joints of his fingers as he breathes into his hands, then tucks them into the warmth under his armpits. After a few quiet miles, the sun breaks over the hills and blankets the valley in a warm golden glow. Scattered as far as he can see, still lingering patches of ice hardened snow sparkle in the newly reborn sunlight. As the miles pass, the clouds turn from deep purple to brilliant pink to soft yellow, Sam thinks back on a life lived on the open road and can’t remember ever seeing a sunrise so beautiful. 

His thoughts wander in the near silence as they ride side by side, listening to the crunch of hooves against rocky ground. He prays to a God he isn’t sure is listening, asking for any help they can get. If Cas doesn’t show soon, Sam fears this plan is their last real option. 

The busy townspeople are well into going about their daily business by the time they ride into the small, one road town. In the post office, Sam scribbles a goodbye note to Bobby on a postcard then packs it into the wooden crate along with the ashes as Dean pens a few short letters. Sam watches as Dean rests his head on his hand, struggling to find the right words and wishes he knew what to say to make it all better. Instead he offers a soft, reassuring smile as Dean looks up at him. 

“It’ll work,” Sam says, laying his hand gently on Dean’s shoulder as Dean sets his letters on top of the straw packed around the glass bottle. “They’ll get them.” 

Dean runs his hand over his mouth, “yeah,” he nods as he shuts the lid. “I’ve got something else I need to do while we’re here,” he says as he hands the package to the elderly man behind the counter.

“Okay,” Sam says, patting Dean on the shoulder, “I’m going to stock up on a few supplies,” he adds, “meet back here when you’re done?”

“Yeah.”

  


“Sheriff,” Elkins says with a nod from behind the bar as Dean walks through the swinging doors of the saloon. 

“Not anymore,” Dean says, guilt twisting in his gut as he sets the brass star down on the counter, “you gotta find someone else.” He has to focus on getting home, he doesn’t have time to keep a whole town safe. 

“Sorry to hear that, Elkins says as he picks the star up, “since we ain't got any other law in town now.” Dean looks down at the star and swallows, he made his decision. 

“I’m sure someone will be willing to stand up-” 

A commotion outside cuts Dean’s thought short as curiosity gets the best of him, he gives Elkins a quick nod before heading out onto the sunlit street. A crowd of people are gathering around a young woman sobbing incoherently. From what he can see, her apron and gingham print dress are stained dark crimson-brown with what he can only assume is blood. She doesn’t appear to be hurt, only hysterical with fear and what Dean assumes is grief. As a few people lead her into one of the nearby buildings Dean notices Sam talking to a man across the street and jogs over to meet him. 

“What’s going on?” he asks as he steps up next to Sam. 

“An attack,” Sam says, turning to him. 

“A cougar,” the man cuts in, “or wolves. Been five so far, two just last night, including her husband,” he nods toward the building next to them. 

“I was just asking him about the attacks,” Sam says, looking at Dean, “he says they were mauled, chests ripped open-” he adds. 

“Gettin’ a huntin’ party together as we speak,” the man spits onto the ground at Dean’s feet, “gon’ kill the son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Well we wouldn’t want to get in the way of any son-of-a-bitch killing,” Dean says with a grin. 

“Thanks,” Sam cuts in, nodding to the man as he pulls Dean away. “Think it’s a hunt?” he asks in a hushed tone as they duck between two buildings. 

“Could be,” Dean says as he looks around them, “what are you thinking, werewolf?” 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “lunar cycle matches. No one mentioned missing hearts, but that doesn’t mean they’re not missing.” 

“Worth a look,” Dean shrugs, eager to get back to some sort of familiarity. A hunt is just what he needs to get his mind off things. 

“I’ll go ask around, see if anyone has any ideas where it might be living,” Sam says as he pats Dean on the shoulder, his hand skimming down his arm as he walks away. 

“I’m going to go talk to Elkins,” Dean calls out after him and Sam stops, turning to face him, “meet back here?” he asks and Sam nods then disappears around the corner. 

Mud squishes under Dean’s boots as he crosses the road back toward the saloon. 

“What’s the commotion?” Elkins asks, looking up from the counter as Dean walks back in. 

“Another attack,” Dean says as he takes a seat on the stool nearest to Elkins, “makes five dead, now.” 

“Sure is somethin’ awful,” Elkins says as he wipes the counter down with a damp cloth. “Can I get you something?” he asks, looking back up at Dean. 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “I’ll take a whiskey.” He pauses for a moment as Elkins pulls a bottle off the shelf behind him. “You ever hear anything about some strange people around here? Folks who keep to themselves, maybe make people uneasy when they come to town.” 

“Thought you gave up bein’ sheriff,” he says, turning back to Dean with a hint of a smile. 

“One last case,” Dean says with a grin. If he can help these people out with this and stop the killing, maybe he won't feel so guilty about quitting. 

“Well,” Elkins says as he grabs a glass from under the bar, “there’s a few odd sticks in the area.” He pours the whiskey into the glass and slides it over to Dean. “There’s old Frank Shaw, a trapper, lives alone in a cabin bout,” he pauses to think, “four miles north-west of here.” Dean takes a sip and immediately coughs as the alcohol burns his throat, making Elkins chuckle, “you sure you can handle that, son?” 

“Yeah,” Dean groans, “I just swallowed it wrong,” he lies as he sets his glass back down on the bar. “Who else?” 

“There’s a couple, don’t know their names. Live in a house a few miles to the west I think, big tree near the house, split clean in half from a lightning strike.” He says as he wipes the counter down for a moment, “had some trouble with ‘em making people uncomfortable a few times here in town,” he continues. “Then there’s a hermit livin’ in a tent just south of town,” he adds, “showed up a couple weeks ago, real rough type.” 

Bingo. 

Dean downs the rest of his glass and it burns like gasoline as it hits his stomach, making him cough. “Thanks for your help,” he chokes out with nod as he reaches into the pocket of his duster. Inside he finds one of the gold coins he keeps there and sets it on the bar next to his empty glass. 

“You could get a couple nights with Darla for that,” Elkins says, pointing to the coin, “she’ll treat you real nice.” 

“Keep my tab open,” Dean winks, trying his best to smile as he pictures the infected looking sores on her mouth, “I’m sure I’ll be back.” 

“Yessir,” Elkins nods as he pockets the coin. “Oh,” Elkins says, stopping Dean in his tracks, Dean watches as he fishes around under the bar, “you might need this,” he says as he sets the brass star down and slides it over to Dean. 

“Thanks,” Dean nods then pushes through the swinging doors and back out onto the boardwalk. 

As he waits for Sam in the alley, he turns the badge over in his hands, rubbing his thumb across the engraved letters on its shining surface. Maybe he doesn’t have to give it up, at least until there is a suitable candidate to take over, but who knows how long that could be. After a few moments, Sam rounds the corner and Dean tucks the star back into his pocket. 

“Any leads?” Dean asks as Sam walks toward him. 

“A few,” Sam says, leaning against the wooden wall next to Dean, “you?” 

“About the same,” Dean answers. “Who’s your top suspect?” he asks, willing to bet Sam heard about the drifter. 

“Well,” Sam starts, “some people brought up a man who blew in a couple weeks ago, he’s been starting trouble around town and people don’t like him.” 

“Bet he’s our guy,” Dean says, “he fits the type, aggressive loner.” 

“That,” Sam nods, “and he hasn’t been around long. Makes sense, coming into town just in time for the full moon. He’ll probably move on after tonight.” 

“We should move then,” Dean says, pushing of the wall before Sam stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“But there’s another popular option,” he suggests as he loosens his grip, “there’s a couple living a few miles to the west, there’s something about a tree in their yard?” 

“Elkins mentioned them too,” Dean says, “but I’d bet good money on the high plains drifter.” 

It doesn’t take long to find the drifter’s camp. Sam spots it first, a simple canvas tent tucked in behind a thicket of sagebrush, just south of town like Elkins said. Dean pulls back on his reins as Sam gestures to him, the unmistakable smell of death hangs thick in the air around them. Dean figures it must be an antelope or a deer the wolf snacked on, or maybe it’s another victim it dragged back home. Either way, the smell turns Dean’s stomach. 

They climb off their horses as quietly as they can, not wanting to tip off the potentially armed monster to their presence. 

“I’ll check it out,” Dean mouths to Sam as he hands him his reins. 

“Wait,” Sam whispers as Dean pulls his silver knife out of the duffel bag strapped to his saddle and shoots Sam a grin, “Dean!” 

Ignoring Sam’s protests, Dean draws his gun and holds it out in front of him, ready to fire if needed as he creeps silently toward the tent. He carefully steps over the dry bushes and sticks in his path, then stops. He turns back to Sam and gives him a signal, Sam nods as he gets his gun ready and signals back. Dean turns to move closer to the tent, as he takes as step forward the crack of a dried stick under his boot sends a rush of fear through him. He ducks down, his heart pounding as he swallows hard, listening for any sign of movement. 

As he waits, he closes his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him, but all he can hear is the his racing heartbeat in his ears and the breeze blowing through the bushes around him. After a few minutes he stands again, turning back to give Sam a quick check, then moves forward. Closer to the tent, the smell of blood and rotting flesh is so strong he has to cover his nose with his free hand. He pauses for a moment at the side of the tent, listening carefully, then decides to make his move. 

He lunges forward gun first around the side of the tent, then stops. 

“I found the drifter,” he calls out to Sam. On the ground in front of him is a nauseating scene. Pieces of the man are scattered on seemingly every surface in the area. Strands of flesh hang from the sagebrush near the fire pit and next to it, the is the man’s torso, ripped wide open with his shredded intestines tossed to the side. What’s left of his organs are scattered in the mud, stained dark brown with dried blood. As he looks closer at the man’s body, he notices his spine peeking out through the torn flesh where his throat was ripped out. 

“Oh, God,” Dean hears Sam groan from behind him, “I guess it wasn’t him.” 

“Guess not,” Dean says as he nudges what he thinks was the man’s liver with the toe of his boot. Sam walks forward, stepping around scattered viscera as he moves closer to the body. Dean watches as he kneels down, examining the chest cavity carefully then looks up at the mess around them. 

“No heart,” Sam says, scrunching his face up as he looks at Dean. 

“Must’ve got him the first night,” Dean says, judging by the dried out state of everything. 

“Why hasn’t anything eaten him yet?” Sam wonders aloud as he stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

“Maybe something about a wolf kill keeps scavengers away,” Dean guesses. 

“Bobby never mentioned that,” Sam says as he looks around the scene, “or dad.” 

“Well I guess they didn’t know everything,” Dean shrugs. 

“Maybe back home the bodies are always discovered fast enough that scavengers are never an issue,” Sam suggests, “nobody ever noticed.” 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “you learn something new everyday.


	3. The Night of March 8, 1861

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine hunt turns into a fight for one of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood, gore, and violence.

It’s just before sunset when the find it, the small one story house with simple wood siding and a corrugated metal roof. Near the front of the home sits the huge split trunk tree, burnt black in the center with half its branches dead and bare, the other half covered in budding leaves. Fields of dead grass and wheat surround the property on three sides, the other is bordered by the grove of tall aspen trees they use for cover as they wait. 

Dean loads and unloads his gun over and over as they sit in silence, listening to the barest scattering of leaves rustle above them. Every so often he looks up at Sam, watching him as he sharpens his silver knife. He studies Sam’s features like he’s done so many times before in the face of uncertainty. Carefully committing each detail to memory because one of these days, his timecard will be punched for the last time and if he only remembers one thing, he wants it to be this. Sam looks soft and younger than he should in the waning twilight, much like the boy Dean used to know well. It wrestles something loose inside him and he swallows around the lump in his throat. When Sam looks up and catches his eye Dean quickly looks back to his gun. It always happens and Sam never mentions it, Dean figures it’s because he knows what Dean is doing and what it means to him, because he catches Sam doing it too. 

When the last of the sun’s light disappears behind the hills and moonlight spreads across the plains they perk up, ready to get to work. They move closer, staying just beyond the tree line as they listen for any sign of movement. It feels like ages pass as they sit silently side by side, until a loud banging sound comes from inside the house, startling them both. Dean pulls the slide on his gun back with a click and looks over to Sam, unspoken words hang between them as Dean nods, Sam nods back and they make their move. He motions for Sam to go around the front and plasters himself to the siding as he watches Sam duck around the corner. The house is eerily quiet as Dean pulls his silver knife out of his belt, he holds it tight in his left hand as he braces his gun, ready to fire.

Suddenly the back door flies open with a crash. Before Dean has a chance to react he is knocked to the ground, the air leaving his lungs with a groan. He drops his knife onto the dirt next to him, just out of reach as he struggles against the beast on top of him. It swings at him wildly with sharp claws, tearing at his clothes as it tries to sink its teeth into his throat. Choking for air, he tries to call out to Sam, to warn him but nothing comes out. With all his strength, he holds it off of him by the shoulders as snapping jaws move ever closer.

His grip slips without warning, the beast’s claws tear into his chest, shredding through skin and muscle. He chokes as he yells out in agony, he can feel the blood begin to pour out of him. As he fights to keep it off of him he angles the gun still in his hand, pressing the barrel against its shoulder he fires off a shot. The werewolf lets out a pained howl as it falls backward onto the ground at Dean’s feet, clutching at its wound. Dean’s ears ring as he scrambles to get to his knife before it gets up again, he wraps his hand around the handle and lunges forward, plunging the blade deep into the beast’s chest. The wolf reaches out, desperately clawing at his duster as it draws its last breath and collapses onto the dirt.

Dean falls back onto his heels as he tries to catch his breath. He can feel himself shaking as he brings his hands to his chest and touches the damage carefully. His body begins to shiver uncontrollably as he looks down at his blood soaked hands, he can feel the heat of it running down his skin, soaking his clothes through. Shock keeps him from feeling the full pain of the wound but he knows it’s bad. Really bad. A shot rings out from inside and Dean panics, he pushes himself off the ground as he tries to get to Sam and immediately feels dizzy. He stumbles forward, bracing himself on the wall and presses his free hand against his chest, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

Through the cracked door, he can just make out Sam struggling with another one in the light of the fireplace. He pushes himself to keep moving forward, to get to Sam before the wolf does. As he takes a step forward he can feel his head going fuzzy, the edges of his vision start to darken as he fights a losing battle to stay conscious. The world around him starts to spin as everything fades to black and he collapses onto the cold ground.

  


Sam pulls his knife out of the werewolf’s body as it falls to the floor with a dull thud. Without a second thought he runs out the backdoor and stops dead in his tracks. “Dean!” he cries out as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees in front of Dean’s body. His chest tightens into knots as he touches Dean’s blank face, his fingers smearing blood across his pale skin. 

All at once the nightmares of that night three years ago are his reality again. Sitting on the floor of that house, holding Dean’s shredded body against him as the situation slowly sinks in. “No, no,” he repeats as tears break the surface, “please.” He touches the artery in Dean’s neck, pressing his fingers against Dean’s skin as he desperately searches for a pulse. The faintest bump of a heartbeat against his hand sends him over the edge. With all his strength, he lifts Dean’s limp body off the ground and carries him through the field as fast as he can. He can feel the heat of Dean’s blood soaking through his clothes as terrified tears stream down his cheeks. 

As carefully as he can, he hauls Dean onto his horse, laying him down across the saddle. He strips his jacket and shirt off and quickly knots them around Dean’s torso to try to stop the bleeding. If Dean has any chance of surviving, it’s on him. Quickly he climbs onto his own horse and rides as fast as he can safely, careful to keep an eye on Dean as he heads back toward town. The ride feels like it takes ages, Sam’s body shivers uncontrollably against the cold night air, his blood soaked t-shirt offering no protection. 

He is not going to lose Dean again. 

His heart races as they reach town, he yells out into the dark empty street, begging someone, anyone to help them. No answer comes so he stops in front of the saloon and pulls Dean off his horse. “Don’t leave me here,” he begs under his breath as he lifts Dean up, supporting him on his shoulder as he drags him through the swinging doors. 

“I need some help!” he yells as he sets Dean down on one of the tables, “someone get a doctor!” The bar patrons look on from their tables as Sam unties the clothing wrapped around Dean. With trembling fingers he unbuttons Dean’s soaked vest and rips the remaining fabric of Dean’s shirts open, exposing the extent of the damage. Three deep gashes stretch across Dean’s pale skin, blood streams out of them steadily. Sam’s stomach is in his throat as he wads his jacket up and presses it firmly against Dean’s chest. 

“Get me a needle and thread!” he yells, frantically looking from person to person, none of them move, their empty expressions stare back, “now!” he barks. His chest feels like it’s being crushed, he can’t catch his breath. 

One of the saloon girls runs upstairs as Sam keeps pressure on Dean’s chest. “Come on, Dean,” Sam chokes out as he looks down at him, “you can’t die on me.” He blinks back the tears clouding his vision, “not like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.” 

The girl returns with a small silk covered box, she opens it and hands Sam a large embroidery needle and a spool of white thread. Sam nods to her in thanks as he takes them. His hands shake as he struggles to thread the needle, stress and frustration build only making him shake worse. 

The girl lays her hand gently on his and he shakes his damp hair out of his face as he looks over at her. “Let me,” she says as she takes the needle and thread from him. Sam watches as she threads it easily and ties it off, then hands it back to him. 

“Hand me that bottle!” Sam yells to a man sitting at the bar. He grabs it from the man’s hand and dumps some of the clear liquid onto the needle. Carefully, he lifts his jacket off Dean’s chest, dark blood begins to pour out of him again as Sam sinks the needle into Dean’s torn skin with trembling hands. The bar patrons gather around, watching as he works. 

When he finishes, he dumps the contents of the bottle over Dean’s chest. It dilutes the blood covering his skin and runs off, gathering into red puddles on the wood floor. 

“Bring him up here,” the girl says from the stairs. Sam hauls Dean up, careful not to hurt him more. One of the other men braces Dean on his shoulder as he helps Sam carry him up the stairs. The girl holds the door open to one of the rooms and Sam lays Dean down on the velvet blanket covering the bed. She moves a chair next to it for Sam to sit on and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. 

Sam sits down and drops his head into his hands, tears run down his cheeks as he lets go. “Please,” he groans, “don’t let him die. I can’t do this without him. Just please don’t let him die.” 

He lifts his head and looks down at Dean’s still body, pale and covered in drying blood. He reaches over and wraps his hand around Dean’s squeezing it gently, hoping Dean knows he’s here.


	4. March 9, 1861

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warning for a little bit of gore**

**March 9, 1861**

Sam wakes suddenly to a knock at the door, he didn’t even realize he fell asleep, exhaustion must have got the better of him. He sits up and groans as he rubs his stiff neck. “Come in,” he croaks out, his throat dry as he looks over at Dean. His stomach twists into sick knots as he reaches up and presses two fingers against the hollow of Dean’s neck. He looks at his hand, stained rusty brown with Dean’s dry blood as he searches for a pulse. 

“Is he still with us?” Sam hears a man say quietly as he steps into the room. He blinks back tears of relief as he feels the bump of Dean’s weak heartbeat. Sam holds his fingers there, feeling the blood pumping through Dean’s veins and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Yeah,” Sam says around the lump in his throat, “yeah, he’s still here.”

“Good,” the man answers as he sets his leather satchel down on the bed next to Dean. He pulls out a pair of glasses from his jacket and wraps the arms around his ears as he leans in to examine Dean’s stitches. Good? That’s it? Sam thinks as he watches the doctor prod at Dean’s wound, as if this man actually cares weather Dean lives or dies.

“Where were you last night?” Sam demands, surprised by his own outburst as the relief he felt sours into anger. “My brother was dying,” he pauses, “might still be dying, and no one could find you,” he snaps, “where the hell were you?” 

“I do have other patients to see,” the doctor says without looking up, “and even doctors are entitled to nights away from their practice.” 

“He could have died!” Sam growls, taking a deep breath as he tries to calm himself.

“But he didn’t, did he, and that’s thanks to you,” he says, looking at Sam over the rim of his glasses. “Did a fair job,” he adds, turning back to Dean, “wouldn’ta made it this long if you hadn’t.” The doctor’s words don’t do much to pacify the anger inside him.

“Can you help him at all?” Sam asks as he watches the doctor prod at Dean’s stitches some more, knowing full well that he can not.

“I can bandage him up, but I’m afraid all we can do is wait. He’s in God’s hands now,” the doctor says as he straightens back up. Sam lets out a deep breath as he nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he watches the doctor pull a roll of off white fabric from his bag and set it on the blanket under Dean. “Help me get him undressed,” the doctor orders as he gestures to Dean.

Sam does his best to hold it together as he lifts Dean’s limp torso off the pillows, cradling his head against his shoulder as the doctor carefully removes the torn fabric from Dean’s body. The freckles sprinkled across Dean’s shoulders stand out more than normal against his pale, clammy skin. Dark, angry bruises cover Dean’s abdomen and Sam closes his eyes. The doctor wraps him in clean cotton and helps Sam lay him back against the pillows. As the doctor packs his things, Sam covers Dean with a quilt one of the girls left in the room while he was sleeping and tucks it under him, making sure he’ll stay warm enough.

He paces the room as the hours pass. Every so often he stops to check Dean’s pulse again, it’s faint but steady and Sam tries with all he has to convince himself that Dean will wake up. His entire body is prickling with nervous energy, he feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin if he stays in this room much longer. He needs to get away for a while to get his mind back on track.

Desperate for a distraction, he opens the door and pulls one of the girls on the balcony aside. “If he wakes up before I get back,” he says to her as he gestures toward the room, “take care of him.” She looks him up and down without answering. “Okay?” he asks firmly and she nods her head in response. “Thank you,” he says as he lets go of her arm.

  


Sam ties his horse up to the fence near the run in shed and walks around to the back of the small house. The body of the werewolf who attacked Dean is now just a woman lying naked in the dirt, the effects of the full moon the night before long since worn off. As he looks down at the body something deep inside him snaps, something he has tried so desperately to hide from his entire life. He takes his knife from its holster and drops down to his knees beside the body in one swift movement. He sees red, rage overwhelms his control as he plunges the blade into its chest again and again, screaming out until his voice is hoarse. Angry tears stream down his cheeks as he stabs and stabs until ragged flesh hangs from carved up bones and his hands are slick with decomposing blood and tissue matter. 

“Fuck you!” he yells into the quiet afternoon air as he drops his knife at his side, “fuck you!” 

He sits back on his heels and shakes away the stray hair that has fallen into his face, his chest heaving as he catches his breath and his body trembling with anger. If she had just been a little stronger, or Dean a little slower, he closes his eyes at the thought. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and sits still, feeling the afternoon sun on his skin as he focuses on his breathing. After what feels like hours, he stands. Near the stack of wood around the side of the house he finds a shovel propped up against the wall next to a splitting maul. He picks it up and carries it out to the far edge of the property. The shovel breaks through the rocky earth as he begins to dig, keeping his mind focused on the work and nothing else. 

Early evening has come by the time he finishes two shallow graves. He climbs out of the second hole and drops the shovel onto the ground next to the pile of removed dirt. As he walks toward the water pump, he wipes the sweat from his forehead on his dirt and blood stained shirt. The pump is rusty in places and looks ancient, he wonders how long this place could have been here. Methodically, he dumps what small amount of water was left sitting in the bucket at its base into the pump as he works the handle and soon water is pouring freely from the spout. He sticks his hands under the steady stream, letting the cool water soothe his sore, blistered hands as he rinses the remaining blood from his skin. When he’s finished, he runs his wet hands through his sweat damp hair, pushing out of his face as he bends to down to drink. 

Inside the house, the man’s naked body is lying face down in a pool of dried blood. Sam lifts him off the floor and half carries him out the back door toward the far edge of the property. The bodies hit the ground with sick sounding thuds as he drops them into their graves. Without a second thought, he shovels loose dirt over them until they disappear into the earth. 

The town is quiet and dark when he gets back. He walks through the swinging doors of the saloon and up the stairs without saying a word to anyone. Inside their room, Dean is lying where he left him, still pale and motionless. Sam presses his fingers to Dean’s neck, praying he still has a pulse. Dean’s faint heartbeat bumps against his fingertips and he sighs in relief. 

“Come back,” he says under his breath as he cups Dean’s jaw. He brushes his thumb over the coarse stubble on Dean’s cheek as he looks down at him, “please.” 

“You want a bath?” a girl’s voice startles him as he lets go of Dean’s face. 

“What?” he asks, looking over at Susannah, the girl who brought him the needle, where she stands in the doorway. 

“I asked if you want a bath, but it weren’t really a question. I’ll be damned if I let you soil my room up anymore than it is,” she says, looking him over, “I still gotta make a living in here when y’all are gone, you know.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Sam says as he looks down at himself. He’s filthy, covered it caked on dirt, sweat, and dried blood, “yeah,” he repeats, looking back up at her, “thank you.” 

He offers to help as she carries pot after pot into the room, filling the tub with hot water fresh from the stove, but she declines with a smile. After about an hour she finishes and Sam thanks her again. 

As she heads toward the door she stops and turns back around to face him, “is he your lover?” she asks. 

“What?” Sam says, taken aback by the bluntness of her question. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” she adds quickly, “and your were touchin’ his face so sweetly when I came in, I just thought-” 

“No,” Sam shakes his head, pulling his eyebrows tight as he looks at Dean’s still form, “no, he’s just my brother.” 

“Oh,” she says looking over at Dean, “of course.” She looks back to Sam with a soft smile on her painted lips, “he’ll wake up, don’t you worry about that.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says, “for everything, really.” 

“My pleasure,” she smiles as she shuts the door quietly behind her. He stands for a moment watching Dean’s chest rise and fall under the quilt, then peels his filthy shirt over his head and lays it on the back of the chair near the bed. One by one, he unbuttons his jeans then pushes them down his legs with his boxers. He sinks into the hot water and lets his stressed body relax. Soothing heat permeates his sore muscles as he closes his eyes and lays back against the heated tin. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he hears Dean’s weak voice come from the bed. He jumps, startled at the sound and whips around to look. 

“Dean?” he breathes out, unable to believe his own eyes. 

“Hey,” Dean groans as he moves to sit up. 

“Hey, man, don’t-” Sam says as he starts to stand up to stop Dean, then pauses. He grabs the towel from the table next to him and holds it up, shielding himself from Dean’s view as he stands. 

“Whoa,” Dean coughs out, “don’t let me ruin your spa day.” Sam quickly pulls his boxers up his wet legs under the towel and steps out of the water, his heart racing in his chest. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he sits in the chair next to the bed and pulls on his t-shirt, unable to keep himself from smiling. 

“How do you think I’m feeling?” Dean groans, “I’m peachy.” Sam lets out a small laugh, unbelievably grateful Dean is alive. “I see you made it out alright.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says with a grin, “I guess you’re losing your touch, huh?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean huffs out a pained laugh as he lays back down against the pillows. “You look like hammered shit by the way,” he adds. 

“You should see yourself,” Sam says then forces out a laugh. He swallows hard as he looks Dean over. They’re quiet for a moment as Sam fusses with the frayed edge of the quilt, “get some rest, okay?”


	5. March 10, 1861 - March 16, 1861

It’s quiet in their little room. Long, slow days pass into even longer nights. Sam stares up at the dark ceiling from his makeshift bed on the floor for what feels like hours at a time, listening to the sound of Dean’s steady breathing in the bed above him. He wakes up stiff and a little sore morning after morning and spends hours on end trying to tend to Dean as much as Dean will let him. He doesn’t make it easy. Most days they play cards to pass some time, betting on nothing in particular, sometimes they can even get a hold of the checkers board. It helps, but not enough.

**March 15, 1861**

“We gotta get out of here, man,” Dean says, breaking the silence between them as he sits up on the bed, “I can’t take it anymore.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Sam asks, turning away from the warm early afternoon light coming in through the window to look at Dean, “you heard what the doctor said.”

“He said a few days, Sam. It’s been five,” Dean says as he rubs his hand through his messy hair and Sam looks him over without saying a word. “I feel fine, I’m ready to hit the road.”

“I don’t know-” Sam shakes his head. The last thing they need it Dean getting some kind of infection from tearing his stitches open, any little thing could kill him. They don’t exactly have any get out of jail free cards here. 

“Sam,” Dean says in his best sincere tone, “I’m fine.” Something in Dean’s expression softens Sam’s resolution and he breaks down. 

“I mean,” Sam sighs as he walks toward the bed, “I guess if you say you’re good.” He sits down next to Dean, “then you’re good.”

“I’m good,” Dean insists as he stands, trying his best to hide the pain he is clearly feeling as he moves.

As Dean gets dressed in what is left of his clothes, Sam gathers up their things and pays the girls for their trouble. He takes their horses from the stable and walks them down the muddy main street toward the saloon. As he waits, he runs through their options as he watches townspeople go about their daily business. After a few minutes, the saloon doors swing open and he looks up as Dean steps out onto the boardwalk. His shredded shirts held on with his stained vest, buttoned with it’s two remaining buttons. As Sam looks him over, Dean pulls his duster closed, shielding his bandages from Sam’s gaze.

“So what’s your plan now?” Sam asks as he hands Dean his reins. 

“Back to Colts?” Dean groans as he lifts his foot up into the stirrup.

“Here,” Sam says, stepping up behind him, “let me-” he rests his hands on Dean’s hips, ready to help lift him.

“I got it,” Dean growls as he swats Sam’s helping hands away from him. Sam takes a step back and watches Dean take a deep breath as he pulls his full weight into the saddle. He knows Dean isn’t fine, he knows pushing himself too hard will hurt him even worse, but he also knows Dean, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop him. 

“So,” Sam says, climbing onto his own horse, “we could do that, or I might have another idea.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks, grimacing as he adjusts his body in the saddle. Sam put a lot of thought into their next move in the days following Dean’s injury, and time after time, he always came back to one thing.

“The werewolf house,” he suggests, scrunching his face up as he looks over at Dean.

“What, like live there?” Dean asks, “seriously?”

“Well,” Sam says, “it’s not like they’re using it anymore.” Dean looks at him for a moment, then shrugs.

The sun had just set by the time they reach the house. Quietly, they unsaddle their horses by moonlight and turn them out into the pasture. The house is almost exactly how they left it, the faint smell of blood still hanging in the air. They drop their bags on the wood floor of the living room and Dean looks around in what little light there is coming through the windows as Sam heads out the back door. He grabs a few split logs from the stack and a handful of dry grass and places them carefully in the fireplace. 

“Looks like the maid came,” Dean says as he looks down at the dark stain on the floor next to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder, “I took care of it while you were out.” After a few minutes of searching, he finds tiny box of matches in the top drawer of the hutch near the window. He lights one on the box and sets it against the dried grass and it ignites, filling the room with a faint orange glow. When he is satisfied, he wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands. As the fire pops next to him, he looks around, taking in their new home, temporary as it may be.

“Play you for it,” he hears Dean say from the doorway leading off the main room. Sam walks over and stands next to Dean. In the room is a bed no bigger than a double topped with a few quilts and two pillows.

“Okay,” Sam grins as he brings his hands up. He counts them off, one, two, three, and Sam laughs as he bops Dean’s scissors with his fist. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, “best two out of three.”

“Naw,” Sam shakes his head, “you can have it, you need it more than I do.”

“No, no, I guess you won fair and square,” Dean shrugs, “besides, you’ve been sleeping on the floor this whole time,” he pats Sam on the back, “you take the bed.”

  


**March 16, 1861**

“What I would do for some hot coffee,” Dean says, loud enough for Sam to hear from the main room where he’s setting a pot of water onto boil over the freshly made fire. Dean is sitting on the bed, unwrapping the bandages from his chest to let the stitches breathe. He pulls the last of the fabric off and looks down at the wounds, neatly stitched shut with rust colored thread. If it wasn’t for Sam he’d be dead, he wonders just how many time that has been true over the years. Carefully, he puts Sam’s dirty white western shirt that he left lying on the bed for him on, and buttons it up over his bruised skin. 

“It’s your lucky day,” he hears Sam call back as he stands, “I found some when I was looking around this morning,” he continues as Dean enters the room. Sam walks into the kitchen and opens the farthest cupboard, he pulls out a small green tin and shakes it toward Dean. 

“Yes,” Dean grins as he takes it from Sam’s hands. 

The strong smell of coffee simmering over a fire fills the house as Sam boils pot after pot of water, filling the weathered tin tub outside in the tall grass. Dean pours himself a cup and looks through the rippled glass of the main room window, out over fields of gray grass stretching out for what looks like miles around them. The coffee is stronger than he’s used to and full of grounds, but Dean swears it might be the best cup he’s ever had. He sips it as he glances at Sam, washing himself in the sun and can’t help the smile that spreads on his lips as he turns away from the window. For the first time since they have been stuck here, he feels content. 

  


Sam rinses himself with handfuls of cooling water, splashing them over his skin and hair. A cool breeze blows past, rippling the grass around him as he steps out of the tub. He grabs the kitchen towel he left on the ground and wipes the excess water from his skin, then lays it on the rocky ground at his feet, He pulls his jeans up his damp legs and kneels down. He shivers slightly in the cool air against his bare skin as he dunks his grey t-shirt, boxers, and socks into the water. With the bar of soap, he scrubs them and rinses them in the water the best that he can. When he finishes he carries his wad of wet clothes over to the clothesline. 

“Want me to wash your clothes?” Sam asks as he steps into the house, shaking his wet hair from his eyes. 

“Uh,” Dean says as he sets his cup down on the table, “yeah, thanks.” Sam waits as he pushes his chair back and walks into the bedroom. 

Dean strips out of his and Sam’s filthy clothes and searches the chest of drawers against the far wall for something to wear. In the bottom drawer, he finds a pair of short, white cotton pants with a button closure. He holds them up to his waist and shrugs, cowboy underwear it is. With a little bit of effort, he pulls them up his legs and buttons the fly. They are tight, and everything is on full display, but they’re better than the alternative. He gathers his clothes from the floor and carries them back into the main room where Sam is waiting. 

Sam’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees Dean. The dark angry bruises surrounding the stitches on his chest are fading to a sick yellow ochre at the edges. His stomach sinks and his mind races to that night, carrying Dean away from that house as he was dying, holding Dean’s life in his shaking hands. Sam clears his throat as he takes the clothes from Dean and forces out a laugh, “I guess Mr. Wolf wasn’t your size, huh?” 

“Shut up,” Dean says, shielding himself from Sam’s view as heat rises in his cheeks. Sam shakes his head with a forced smile as he turns away and walks back out of the house. Dean crumples what is left of his tattered shirts and tosses them into the fire. 

  


“Hey,” Dean hears Sam call out as he pulls his clothes off the line, “I’m thinking about going back into town for a supply run,” there’s a pause as he gets dressed. “You feeling up to going?” He asks as he walks back into the house. 

“Naw,” Dean says, thinking about how much riding hurt the last time, “I think I’ll hold down the fort.” 

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs as he pulls on his jacket. 

Dean leans against the door frame as he watches Sam disappear around the bend in the road. His stomach growls as he turns back into the house and shuts the door behind him. The cupboards are packed with sacks of flour, oats, and beans, tin cans and glass jars. He grabs a jar of peaches and sits down, cross legged on the floor as he opens the lid. He pulls out a slice and pops it into his mouth, he would say they taste like heaven, but he’s been there and it didn’t agree with him. These peaches are better than heaven. 

He sets the empty jar on the counter and without thinking he reaches up to scratch his itching stitches but stops himself. With years of experience, he knows itching means he’s healing and scratching will only make it worse. 

As he wraps his bandages back around his torso, his mind wanders to the people they left behind. He wonders if Lisa and Ben got his letters, or if they even read them. The very real possibility that they are dead snakes its way into his thoughts, infecting him with sick dread as he drops his head into his hands. He couldn’t be there when they needed him most, he failed them. 

  


It’s well past dark when Sam returns. He drops a couple flour sacks full of goods onto the floor by the door. “Feels like Christmas,” Dean jokes as Sam digs through one of the sacks. He pulls out a cream colored henley and tosses it to Dean. “Thanks,” he says as he puts it on. 

“Oh,” Sam says as he sets his duffel bag on the table and pulls out a glass jar full of brown chunks, “I brought you some dinner from the Inn,” he tosses it to Dean, “it’s beef stew, not half bad.” 

“Awesome,” Dean grins as he opens the jar and tips it toward his mouth. 

“Well,” Sam says, looking over his haul, “I got some food basics, changes of clothes, soap and stuff. Silver, iron, crucifixes, paint, lots of salt, and a couple of revolvers and rifles So we’re not walking around with these,” he says as he sets his shining Taurus on the table. 

“Smart,” Dean says as he chews through chunks of tough beef. Sam takes the seat at the table across from him and they sit together in silence for a few minutes as Dean eats. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks, breaking the silence between them. 

“I’ll live,” Dean says and they’re quiet again. 

“Dean,” Sam starts as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table, “I know this isn’t ideal-” 

“It’s pretty fucking far from ideal, Sam,” Dean huffs out as everything he was feeling earlier comes back to the surface. 

“Okay,” Sam nods, “but it’s what’s happening. We have no way of contacting anyone or getting back, we’re stuck here, we might as well make the best of it.” 

“If I didn’t know better,” Dean says as he sets the empty jar down between them, “it kind of sounds like you’d rather be stuck here in Deadwood,” he leans forward, “and I do know better, right, Sam?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t rather be here.” Sam furrows his brow as he looks at Dean, “but I’m being realistic here, Dean. I don’t see a whole lot of other options.” 

“There’s always other options. Cas will figure something out,” Dean insists as he folds his arms across his chest. 

“And if he doesn’t?” 

“Then we will.” Dean’s stubbornness was always a perfect blend of frustrating and endearing, depending on which side of the argument Sam was on. But tonight, something about him is off, Sam can feel it. 

“Okay,” Sam concedes, leaning back in his chair as he runs his hand down his face. “Until then,” he says as he stands, “let’s at least get this place on lockdown.” He digs through one of the bags and pulls out a can of paint and a few brushes. 

The two of them spend hours into the night painting white devil’s traps and protection sigils on the walls and ceiling in silence. They line the windows and doors with salt, careful not to leave any breaks in the perimeter. 

It’s late by the time they finish. Sam sets the paint can on the table and takes in their work. If this is going to be their home, at least now they will be safe in it. “I’m going to hit the hay,” he says, looking over to Dean. 

“Yeah,” Dean yawns, “good idea.” 

Sam strips out of his dusty clothes in the bedroom as Dean blows out the lamps in the main room, plunging the house into darkness. The bed squeaks as he climbs into it and after a few minutes, he can hear Dean tossing and turning on the floor, trying to get comfortable. 

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor you know, the bed’s big enough for both of us,” he says against his pillow. 

“Yeah,” he hears Dean snort, “and deal with you bumping into me all night with you gigantor limbs? I’m good here, thanks.” 

“Whatever,” Sam huffs as he turns over and nestles his head down into his lumpy pillow. He listens to the sound of Dean fussing on the floor as he drifts to sleep. After awhile, the bed dipping gently behind him jerks him awake, he turns over, ready to strike out. 

“Relax,” he hears Dean say softly in the darkness, “it’s just me.” 

“Decided the big comfy bed sounded pretty good after all, huh?” Sam asks, scooting over to make room. 

“Shut up.”


	6. March 17, 1861 - March 18, 1861

**March 17, 1861**

It rains today for the first time in a while. Dean wakes early to the sound of it pouring down against the metal roof. Their room is colder than it has been and he pulls the covers up tight around himself. He nuzzles down against his pillow as he listens to the soothing sound and drifts back to sleep. It’s the best sleep he has had in a long time.

Later in the morning, the sky is dark with angry looking clouds as the rain continues to fall, saturating the thirsty earth. Dean builds a fire for breakfast, carefully stacking kindling around what little spare paper they have as Sam quietly puts away the rest of the goods.

“Oh,” Sam says out of nowhere and Dean turns around to look, “I also got you this.” He pulls a leather bound book out of the sack and holds it out, Dean takes it and looks back up at Sam. “It’s a journal,” Sam says with a smile, “figured you might want to start one of your own.”

Dean looks it over and unties the leather cording wrapped around it. He flips through the blank pages and until he sees writing on the first page. Sam’s unmistakable handwriting is scribbled in black ink,

_’For my brother, Dean_

who has one hell of a story to tell. 

_-Sam, 1861’_

He rereads the words then shuts it again. “This is,” he says looking up at Sam, surprised at how thoughtful the gift really is. He pauses, glancing back down at the journal as he searches for the right words to express his gratitude and settles on, “thanks, man.”

“Here,” Sam says, handing him a wooden pen and a little glass jar of ink. He takes them with a nod and sits down at the table. 

“Hey, Sam?” he asks as he runs his fingers over the soft leather.

“Yeah?” he hears Sam answer from the kitchen behind him.

“What’s today’s date?” Dean asks, realizing he has no idea how long they have been gone. 

“Um,” Sam says as he thinks. Dean dips his pen into the ink as he waits for Sam’s answer. “March 17th?”

Dean scribbles down _March 17, 1861_ in the top corner of the second page and pauses. He dips his pen into the ink again and starts to write.

_It’s been 11 days. We’re both doing good, alive and kicking against the odds._

  


**March 18, 1861**

The sun is just starting to rise when Sam stirs awake, he yawns and stretches as he turns over. Dean is facing him and in the soft early morning light he looks so delicate. Long dark lashes rest against his freckle dusted cheeks, flushed pink from sleep. His lips are just barely parted as he breathes steadily and his hands are tucked up under his chin, clutching the quilt tight. 

Sam smiles fondly as he lays still, watching Dean until sunlight starts to pour in through the lace curtains onto the bed. Dean stirs and blinks his eyes open, he looks over to Sam and closes his eyes again as he nestles into the pillow. 

“You watchin’ me sleep?” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Yeah,” Sam huffs with a smile, “sure.” 

“Creep,” Dean says with the faintest hint of a smile one his lips, then yawns. Sam grins as he turns over onto his back and stretches again. They lay in silence for a few minutes as Sam tries to think of something to say. 

“I don’t think Cas is coming,” he says quietly, looking up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. 

“Why would you say that?” Dean asks and Sam regrets it already, but it’s too late now. 

“It’s been almost two weeks, Dean,” he says as he looks over to him, “if he could get us he would have by now.” 

“So what, you’re just giving up?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow in disappointment. 

“No,” Sam says as he picks at the threads of the quilt, “I’m just saying, I think it’s on us now.” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Dean insists. Sam thinks Dean really believes there is a way out of this but as the days pass, Sam is convinced less and less that they are ever going to see their time again. He wants to believe but realistically, he is starting to think their chances are slim to none. 

“I know,” Sam lies as he gets out of bed. He pulls his clothes on as Dean sits up and stretches. “Want me to change those?” Sam asks, gesturing to Dean’s bandages as he looks him over. 

“Naw,” Dean says as he looks down at his bare chest, “I think it’s time to leave them off anyway.” 

“Here,” Sam says, reaching out as he steps forward. 

“I can do it.” Dean swats Sam’s hands away. He carefully unwraps the bandages from around his chest as Sam watches. The bruises look like they are still healing, which means he isn’t bleeding internally. Which means Sam can relax a little. 

“Looks like it’s healing alright,” Sam says as he touches the bruised skin gingerly. Dean looks down, watching Sam’s fingers ghost across his chest, the barely there touch making his skin erupt in goosebumps. “Does it still hurt?” Sam asks as he touches the threads. 

Dean lets out a shaky breath as Sam’s fingertips linger on his skin. “A little,” he admits, pulling himself out of it, “it itches like a motherfucker, though.” 

“Don’t scratch at it,” Sam says as he withdraws his hand and stands up straight. 

“Yes, doctor. I know,” Dean huffs as he rolls his eyes. 

  


In the afternoon, Dean watches Sam from the fence as he chops firewood. The ground is still muddy from the storm the day before and the air is finally starting to warm up. He sips his coffee, savoring the heat of it as he swallows. 

“Kind of feels like when we were kids, you know?” Sam says out of nowhere as he sets the ax down against the stack of wood, “sharing a bed, having no one but each other to talk to for weeks at a time,” he pauses as he wipes the sweat from his face with his t-shirt, “lots of canned food,” he laughs. 

Dean smiles at the memories, “bet you’re glad spaghettios don’t exist yet.” 

“Man, I still can’t eat those, they’re ruined for me,” Sam laughs again. 

“That’s what happens when you only eat one thing for a whole year,” Dean says, taking another sip of coffee. 

“It wasn’t a whole year,” Sam huffs, shaking his head as he sits down on the log. 

“Just about,” Dean laughs. 

“Oh come on.” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I think I’d remember, Sammy. I was the one making it for you,” Dean says with a smile as he takes another sip. 

“Yeah, well,” Sam starts as he looks around, he’s quiet for a moment, “I guess I’m just grateful for some kind of familiarity, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking down at the ground, “I know.” 

That night, Dean sits at the table with his pen and ink, looking down at the firelight flickering across the page. He dips his pen in and scribbles onto the page: 

_March 18, 1861:_

_Sam says being trapped here feels like when we were kids and in a lot of ways, I guess he’s right. It should feel isolating, being stuck so far away from everyone we’ve ever known, but if there’s one thing we learned growing up, it’s that all we really need is each other. As long as I’ve got him, we can do anything._

_As long as I’ve got Sam, I’ll be okay._

“What do you say we crack open a bottle, huh?” Dean asks as he looks over to Sam, sitting next to the fire. 

“Yeah,” Sam says with a smile, “sure.” Dean closes his journal and scoots away from the table. He grabs one of the bottle of whiskey Sam picked up, from one of the cupboards and sits down on the floor next to Sam. The cork comes out with a pop and Dean takes a swig. He coughs immediately, it’s rough but nowhere near as bad as the stuff from the saloon. Sam laughs as Dean passes him the bottle, he takes a drink and chokes. 

“Not so funny now, huh?” Dean grins. 

“That,” Sam coughs out, “is horrible.” 

“Gets the job done though,” Dean nods as he laughs. They drink into the night, passing the bottle back and forth in front of the warm fire. Dean wouldn’t admit it, but for the first time, it feels like home. 

Sam passes the bottle to Dean and lays back onto the floor, “you know what I miss?” he asks as he looks up that the flickering light on the ceiling. 

“What?” Dean asks as he takes another drink. 

“Toilet paper,” Sam says and they both burst out laughing. 

“Yeah, my ass is still trying to get used to those catalog pages,” Dean laughs, “you know what I miss?” 

“What?” Sam asks, turning his head to look up at Dean. 

“I miss cold drinks,” Dean says, looking at the half empty bottle, “whiskey just isn’t the same without ice.” 

“I miss the internet,” Sam adds and Dean laughs again. 

“I miss porn,” Dean sighs as he hold the bottle out for Sam to take, “jerking it in the outhouse to the lady on the coffee tin just isn’t quite doing it for me.” 

“Dean!” Sam groans, scrunching his face up as he feigns disgust, “thanks for sharing, I didn’t need to know that.” 

“It’s better than you,” Dean laughs, “acting like you don’t rub one out once in awhile, at least I’m honest about it.” 

“I just don’t feel the need to let you in on every detail of my personal habits,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway,” he says, changing the subject quickly, “I miss modern medicine.” He takes the bottle from Dean and sets it on the floor between them. 

“I miss my baby,” Dean says fondly. The thought of a stranger getting a hold of the closest thing they ever had to a home twists his gut. His thoughts drift to Bobby, hopping he is taking good care of his wheels while they’re gone, then to Lisa and Ben. “They’re out there all alone,” he says quietly. 

Sam looks over at him then rolls over to face him. “Bobby and Cas will kill Eve, they’re still back there, right? The people we love will be okay,” Sam assures him as he rests his hand on Dean’s thigh. Dean nods as he pats the back of Sam’s hand and grips it tight. 

“I’m going to head to bed,” Dean says as he squeezes Sam’s hand before letting go of it as he stands. Sam watches Dean disappear into the bedroom then rolls over onto his back as he stares up at the ceiling and flexes the hand Dean held.


	7. March 19, 1861 - March 21, 1861

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW art at the end, just a heads up!

**March 19, 1861**

Sam wakes just before sunrise, his head still fuzzy from the whiskey the night before. Their room is colder than normal, he forgot to stoke the fire for the night, it must’ve gone out just after he climbed into bed. Dean is pressed against his back for warmth, snoring quietly. Sam listens to the soothing sound as he relaxes into the heat radiating from Dean’s body. He tucks the quilt up under his chin and nestles his body into the mattress to get comfortable as he feels himself drifting back to sleep.

After a moment, Sam’s eyes snap open as he realization of what he feels becomes glaringly clear. Dean is hard, he can feel the heat of his firm length nestled against his the small of his back and Sam doesn’t move. He closes his eyes again and breathes out a sigh, sick guilt winds its way around his gut, constricting him tight as he lays still. For what feels like ages, he fights every part of him wanting to stay, to let himself keep just this little bit of Dean he isn’t meant to have. He swallows hard as he pulls away and scoots to the edge of the bed. Cold air fills the space between them as he sits up and drops his head into his hands, worried somehow Dean is going to know.

He starts a fire quietly and grabs the large metal pot next to the fireplace and heads out the door to fill it up. It’s almost freezing outside, the sun is just starting to crest over the hills and everything is covered in a sparkling layer of frost. He shivers and yawns as he fills the pot with water from the pump, after a few trips the tub is half full. He fills the pot again and carries it inside, then sets it in the fireplace and waits for it to boil. The fire crackles as he sits in silence, listening for any hint of movement from the other room. When it’s done, he grabs a few towels from the kitchen and carries the steaming pot outside to the tub and dumps it into the cold water.

Sam shivers as he strips out of his clothes and carefully sets them aside. Chills run down his spine and his skin erupts into goosebumps as he steps into the warm water. He lays back, resting his head against the edge of the tub and puffs out breaths into the cold morning air as he watches the end of the sunrise out over the aspen trees. He takes in the peaceful scenery of their new home and tries to clear his head, but his thoughts keep drifting back to the same place.

He closes his eyes and sighs as he sinks further into the water. Birds chirp in the distance as he slides his hand down his stomach, melting into the touch as he strokes himself lazily under the cooling water. His thoughts drift to years long passed, memories like old photographs, cracked and faded at the edges. He lets out a soft moan, his hips rolling forward to push into his hand as he grips himself a little tighter. His strokes become more deliberate, his pace picking up as his abs begin to tighten. His body trembles as he bites down on his lip, trapping the name threatening to escape on his breath. He’s close, just a few more strokes and-

A crashing noise brings him out of it suddenly, he lets go and braces his hands on the edge of the tub, ready to jump up when he hears Dean’s voice calling his name. Dean runs out of the house before Sam can answer.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean yells as he makes his way through the tall grass toward the tub, “you can’t just-” Sam quickly pulls his knees up to his chest, trapping his secret against his stomach as he tries to steady his breathing before Dean reaches him.

“Do I have to report to you every time I want to take a bath?” He manages to say, his voice only wavering slightly.

“What? No,” Dean says, “I just,” he pauses, “I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought,” he trails off as he comes to a stop at the foot of the tub.

“I needed to be alone,” Sam admits, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Oh,” Dean says, looking him over. Sam can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as Dean’s mouth slowly turns up into a grin, “so you’re jerking off,” he smiles, “I knew it!”

“Fuck off, Dean,” Sam groans, still trying to hide the obvious.

“No, no,” Dean says, waving his hand in the air as he turns away, “don’t let me stop you,” he laughs, “it’s perfectly natural, Sam.”

“I wasn’t-” Sam insists as Dean walks toward the house.

“Just clean out the tub when you’re done!” Dean calls back to him.

Sam drops his head back down against the edge of the tub with a sigh. He closes his eyes to the bright sunlight coming over the rolling hills as he relaxes his legs and can’t help but huff out a laugh.

**March 21, 1861**

“Where’d you put those scissors and stuff you picked up?” Dean asks as he steps into the kitchen. 

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to him as he thinks, “in the second drawer in the dresser.” Dean nods and turns to walk away. “Why?” Sam asks. 

“I’m going to take these out,” Dean says, pointing to his chest, “I think it’s time.” 

“Oh, okay,” Sam nods, “I’m almost done with the potatoes.” 

“No, I got it,” Dean says, putting a hand out, “you just keep working on dinner,” he smiles as he turns away. 

“Hey, wait,” Sam calls out, setting the knife down on the counter as he follows Dean, “you’re not doing it yourself.” Dean turns around and stops. 

“I’m a big boy, Sam,” Dean laughs, “I know how to remove stitches, I’ve been doing it since grade school.” 

“I know that, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes, “it’ll just be easier, quicker, and safer,” Sam pauses for emphasis, “if I do it.” 

“Fine, if it’ll shut you up,” Dean throws his hands up in the air, “you can do it.” 

“Okay,” Sam nods, “I’ll boil some water.” 

Sam drops the scissors and a pair of tweezers into the pot of boiling water on the fire, he watches it bubble as Dean waits on one of the chairs. A few minutes pass and Sam grabs one of the kitchen towels. He takes the pot out of the fire and walks it into the kitchen where he dumps it into the sink. The tools drop onto the metal as boiling water runs down the drain. He takes the hot tools out with the kitchen towel and carries them back into the main room. 

“Ready?” Sam asks as he sets them down on the table next to Dean. Dean nods his head as he looks up at Sam. Sam nods back and kneels on the floor between Dean’s legs as Dean begins to unbutton his shirt. Sam watches his fingers work as he pops the buttons free, one after another then slides the fabric off his shoulders. The darkened purple skin of Dean’s scars stand out in stark contrast to the pale, freckle dusted skin of the rest of his chest. Before he can stop himself, Sam reaches up and runs his fingers down the raised threads as his stomach turns, thinking about that night. 

He feels Dean’s chest move under his fingertips as he takes in a breath and Sam looks up at him. Dean’s eyes snap up from where he was watching Sam’s hand to meet his eyes and for a split second, Sam swears Dean knows everything. Immediately, Sam pulls his hand back, he clears his throat as he looks away and reaches for the tools on the table. 

“Hand me that bottle.” 

He takes the whiskey from Dean’s hand and dumps some onto the kitchen towel. He reaches up and dabs it onto Dean’s skin, cleaning it to prevent infection. The tools are still warm as he picks them up, carefully, he pulls the first knot away from Dean’s skin with the tweezers and snips the tiny loop. The thread sticks slightly as he pulls it from Dean’s skin but it comes out clean, no blood, which means Dean is fully healed. 

Sam lets out a sigh of relief as he moves onto the next one. Dean watches as Sam carefully removes stitch after stitch, dropping the bits of soiled thread onto the towel on the floor. “How does that feel?” Sam asks as he pulls the last bit of thread out. He looks up at Dean as he sits back on his heels. 

“Great,” Dean says as he runs his hand over the delicate skin of the scars stretching across his chest. 

“Good,” Sam says with a nod as he stands. 

_March 21, 1861:_

_We decided to try to use the garden out behind the house, we think we’re going to be out of gold by winter at the rate we’re going. So we need to preserve as much food and be as self sufficient as we can if we want to survive to see 1862. Neither of us have kept a real garden in our lives, Sam knows more about it than I do, he must’ve read a book or something._

_Nerd._

_Also we took my stitches out today, it was… an event. Let’s just say I’m glad they’re out and I can move on._

  



	8. March 23, 1861 - October 17. 1861

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly new!

**March 23, 1861**

Dean wakes to a sudden sound just after sunrise. It startles him from sleep and he shoots up, listening for it again. Silence surrounds him in their almost dark bedroom for a few moments, then he hears it again, someone is knocking at the door.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, patting Sam on the shoulder, “hey, wake up, Sam.”

“What?” Sam groans as he rolls over and looks at Dean with a yawn.

“Someone’s at the door,” he says quietly and Sam sits up, pushing the mess of hair away from his face. He looks at Dean with a questioning expression and Dean puts a finger to his lips as he reaches under his pillow for his gun. “Watch my back,” he whispers as he climbs off the squeaky bed as carefully as he can. The knock on the door is louder this time and accompanied by a man’s voice.

“Sheriff!” the man calls out as he wraps on the wood. Sam follows Dean to the door with his own gun drawn, ready to fire. He stands against the wall next to the door and waits as Dean steps up to it.

“What do you want?” Dean asks through the wood, his voice still rough with sleep.

“I’m a deputy with the U.S. Marshal’s Service, sir. I was sent by my superior, Jim Rawlings, to collect you and bring you into Sunrise,” the man says matter of factly. Dean looks over to Sam and Sam shrugs. Dean unlocks the door carefully and cracks it open just enough to see out. The man is shorter than Dean but not by much, slim in stature and wearing a suit of various shades of brown, all topped off with a small dark bowler type hat. 

Dean clears his throat as he sizes the man up, “on what grounds?” he asks, his gun at the ready just behind the door.

“We brought in the fugitive Josh Tucker,” he pauses, as if expecting Dean to know who that is. “We gathered him up in near the Colorado border,” he continues, “you need to be present for the hangin’,” the man pauses again then adds, “sir.” It slipped Dean’s mind completely in the days following his accident to give his badge back to Elkins, guess this means he’s still acting sheriff. 

Satisfied with the man’s answer, Dean opens the door more. He sees the man’s eyes dart down to the still fresh scars on his bare chest where they linger for a moment, then back up to his face. “I’m going to need a few minutes to get ready,” Dean says, gesturing back into the house with his head, “I’ll be right out.”

“You’re going?” Sam whispers as Dean shuts the door again. 

“Of course I’m going,” Dean says, walking toward the bedroom, “I’m the sheriff, I can’t step out on my duties now.”

“Stepping out on your duties is exactly what you’ve been doing for weeks, Dean,” Sam says as he follows him, “the last time we tried to play lawman, you almost died.” Sam’s voice wavers slightly as he says the last word. 

“Sam,” Dean sighs, “it’s just a run into town,” he insists as he pulls his trousers on and buttons them up. “Besides,” he says as he reaches for his henley, “we need to pick up some supplies anyway, you said so yourself.”

“I’m going with you,” Sam says as if Dean would protest. Dean huffs out a laugh, pulling his henley on over his head as he walks into the kitchen. 

“Of course you’re going, Sam,” he says, opening up the cupboard above the sink to grab the small tin of tooth powder and mints, “you’re my deputy.” He pops the lid and dumps some of the powder into his mouth and scrubs at his teeth with the corner of one of the clean towels.

“Oh is that so,” Sam asks, Dean can hear the smile on his lips as he hands Sam the tin.

“Yup.” Dean spits into the sink, “the Andy to my Woody.” Sam nods, rolling his eyes with a mouthful of towel. Dean smiles, reaching for the water as he watches Sam. “Come on, deputy,” he says, slapping Sam on the ass, “get dressed, we’ve got work to do.” Sam chokes out in surprise, spitting powder out into the air, Dean grins as he walks back toward the door. He buttons up his vest and steps into his boots as Sam readies himself in the bedroom. “I’ll get the horses ready,” he calls out, “meet me out there.”

“Okay,” Sam’s answers as Dean reaches for his duster and hat.

  


“What’d this guy do anyway,” Dean asks as they ride toward town, “I’m kinda new around here,” he admits. The early morning sunlight on his skin is warm against the cold air and the ground still sparkles with frost. 

“Robbed a coach headed for Sunrise,” Deputy Ellis says, turning back in his saddle to look at them, “killed two of the passengers, left the others for dead. Got away with just twenty-two dollars and some jewelry.” 

“Shit,” Dean says under his breath as he shakes his head. 

“Shit is right,” Ellis adds, “unlucky for him, a rancher found the coach after two days and the survivors identified him from wanted posters from the area,” he continues, “he stole two horses from a man just two weeks before that.” 

“Was he tried?” Sam asks, and Dean looks at him. 

“He killed two people, Sam,” Dean says. 

“He could have been misidentified,” Sam says, furrowing his brows as he looks back at Dean, and Dean knows Sam is right. “What evidence do you have that it was him?” Sam asks Ellis, “other than hearsay?” 

“Is he your deputy or some kind of lawyer?” Ellis asks, looking Sam over with narrow eyes. 

“He’s both,” Dean says firmly, “now answer his question.” 

Ellis takes a deep breath, “the testimony of three eyewitnesses was enough for the judge to issue a warrant for his arrest and subsequent execution,” he explains, “in the eyes of the law, he’s guilty.” 

“The man is entitled to a fair trial,” Sam insists, “with legal representation,” he adds as he turns to Dean to back him up. 

“You don’t have the authority to make that call, deputy,” Ellis says and Sam lets out an exasperated laugh. 

“Alright, alright,” Dean says, putting his hands up, “let’s just get into town and handle it from there, okay?” Sam shakes his head in frustration, “okay?” Dean repeats, more firmly this time. 

“Okay,” Sam answers as he lets out a deep breath. After a few minutes in silence, Sam speaks again, “I won't let an innocent man hang.” 

“You won't have to,” Ellis says without looking back. 

The rest of the ride is quiet, Dean can feel the tension hanging heavy between them. Just outside of town, Ellis turns to him and leans in. 

“It’s a bit unorthodox to be sharing quarters with your deputy, isn’t it sheriff?” he asks, glancing over at Sam and back to Dean. 

“He’s my brother,” Dean says, he clears his throat then adds, “he’s been helping me keep the old homestead going,” he pauses for a moment as he looks over to Sam where he is hanging back a few paces, “a God send really,” he adds, turning back to Ellis, “after I lost my wife and son, it’s been a tough go.” The truth hidden in his lie twists inside him as he nods, looking down at his gloved hands gripping his reins tightly. 

  


Inside the Sunrise jailhouse, the man in question, Josh Tucker sits alone in a cell as he awaits his fate. “Sheriff,” a tall man says, holding out his hand for Dean as they step into the small building, “Jack Rawlings, U.S. Marshal’s Service,” he continues. 

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, taking the marshal’s hand firmly, “sheriff of Sunrise.” 

“Sorry for fetching you like this,” Jim says as he takes a step back and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, “we just need you to take care of a few document’s before the execution, standard procedure.” 

“Of course,” Dean nods, glancing over to Sam, “show me the way.” As he follows Jim to the desk against the far wall, Sam walks over to the cell. 

“Did you do it?” he asks quietly. Josh doesn’t answer, just looks straight ahead. “Hey,” Sam says, “I need to know if you’re innocent, I can help,” he insists as he looks around to the other men in the room. “You deserve a fair trial.” 

“Alright, come on,” one of the men says as he takes the keys from his belt, “let’s go.” 

“Wait,” Sam says, putting a hand up to stop him, the man ignores his protests and proceeds to put the key in the lock. “I said, wait!” Sam says, louder this time and the man takes a step back. “This man deserves a fair trial.” 

“Answer him,” Dean says, stepping up to the bars, “this is your last chance, pal.” 

“Fuck you,” Josh spits onto the ground, “I ain’t begged for my life never and I ain’t about to start now.” 

“I think you’ve got your answer,” Jim says as he unlocks the cell door and steps inside, “Josh Tucker, you are sentenced to death by the state of Wyoming, you are to be hanged by the neck until dead, do you understand?” 

“Fuck you,” Josh says again. 

“Do you want to be read your last rights?” Jim asks, as he picks Josh up off the bench by the iron cuffs behind his back. 

“Ain’t no God where I’m goin’” he says, looking at Sam as they pass by. 

“You tried, Sam,” Dean says, patting him on the shoulder, “some people just don’t want to be helped.” 

At a quarter past nine the platform of the gallows drops and Josh Tucker falls to his death, the sickening snap of his spine ringing out over the hushed street. Their ride home is silent, Dean starts to say something several times but stops himself. 

“I think he did it,” he says finally after a mile or so. 

“It doesn’t matter if he did it or not,” Sam says quickly, like he had been waiting for Dean to say that very thing, “it’s innocent until proven guilty, Dean, not the other way around. That man wasn’t proven guilty, no matter what he said.” 

“I know you want to, Sam, but you can’t save everyone.” 

... 

_March 23, 1861_

_They hanged a man in town today, as acting sheriff I was required to be there. Sam insisted on giving the man a fair trial but frontier justice is just different, I guess. It’s still affecting him, he’s been quiet all day. I don’t know what to say to make it better._

… 

_March 25, 1861_

__

__

The garden is going well, we’re weeding everyday and watering everyday, no seeds have sprouted yet. It keeps us busy though. You never realize how much you depend on technology to keep you sane until you’re thrown back in time by an angel and then left to fend for yourself, you know? 

I tried my hand at shaving with a straight razor today and I have to say, I didn’t do too bad. Only nicked myself twice. Sam’s stubble is getting long, longer than I’ve ever seen it. I think a beard would suit him, but I won’t tell him that. 

Sam says he is doing good. I want to trust him but something tells me he’s not giving me the whole truth. But it’s not like I don’t have plenty of time to get it out of him… right? 

… 

_March 30, 1861_

__

__

It’s been pouring for days now, the roof is leaking pretty good in a couple spots, good thing we’ve got plenty of pots. Hey, that rhymed. 

Being cooped up in one room for days at a time was a big part of growing up for us, which only makes me hate it more now, it’s just not the same. 

Oh and by the way, the invention of the modern toilet and sewer is the greatest invention of um, ever, and it can not come soon enough. If I have to wipe my ass with a corn husk one more time so help me… and I can’t even look up when toilet paper was invented so I know how long I have to wait. 

Help. 

… 

_April 06, 1861_

__

__

It’s been a month. 

We went into town today to restock some supplies and get the horses reshoed, it was just like I remember it… the novelty of the old west is starting to wear off. Which is something I never thought I would say. 

In other news, two people volunteered as deputies since last time we were in town. The jail has one occupant awaiting extradition to Nevada, and there was a land dispute between two neighboring families me and Sam had to oversee to keep things from turning violent. 

Also Sam shaved the beard today, back to old baby faced Sammy. I have to say I’m gonna miss it. 

… 

_April 08, 1861_

__

__

I find myself thinking about when we were younger… a lot. 

I don’t want to. 

… 

_April 13, 1861_

__

__

It’s been awhile since I made my last entry, nothing much has happened. The town has been quiet, nothing the deputies can’t handle. Their names are Rusty and Dan, by the way. I tried calling Dan ‘Dirty Dan’ the other day, he didn’t seem to like it… it made Sam laugh though. 

The last of my scabbing is almost gone now, I’m almost back to normal except for, you know, the three massive scars I’ll have across my chest for the rest of my life. 

I told Sam I was thinking about growing out a Sam Elliott mustache and he laughed at me. I don't know if that makes me want to do it more or less. 

I think I’m going to do it. 

… 

_April 18, 1861_

__

__

The Civil War started, news of it reached town a few days ago. It’s weird to think this huge event I’ve read about in every history class I’ve ever taken is happening just a few states away. 

We lost Dirty Dan, he enlisted as soon as he could. 

On a more personal note, I’m having a hard time with certain, things. Things I’ve dealt with for years but this situation is making it- 

… 

_April 20, 1861_

__

__

We decided if the weather stays nice, we’re going to head down to the creek we found out behind the trees. 

Sam says he wants to get a dog, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t even know if we’re going to have enough food to last us the winter, much less another animal. 

Tomorrow we have to go into town to investigate a robbery, someone broke into the general store and took a bunch stuff last night while everyone was sleeping. Should be a good time. 

… 

_April 27, 1861_

__

__

He’s getting under my skin. 

I don’t know if I have the strength to keep this up for… however long we’re going to be here. 

Somehow I’m going to slip up, I know it. 

… 

_April 30, 1861_

__

__

The robber turned out to be a friend of the store owner’s son, he confessed after his dad turned him in for the bounty. Nothing quite like tough love. 

… 

_May 02, 1861_

__

__

Sam turns 28 today. 

I can still remember when he was just a baby. He grew up too fast. 

_We both did._

  


**June 17, 1861**

“I was thinking about going down to the creek again today,” Sam says over breakfast, “it’s been hot the last couple of days, could be nice.” Dean nods as he finishes chewing his bite of potatoes. 

“Yeah sure,” he says as he swallows, “sounds good.” 

The sun hangs high in the sky, making pinpoints of light through the leaves shine on the ground around them as they walk down the path through the tall aspen trees. A soft breeze blows through, cool against his skin and as far as days go, Sam thinks this might be as nice as it gets. At the bank, they make quick work of kicking off their boots and socks, then strip out of their pants and shirts, leaving their underclothes on. 

Sam lays his shirt down next to his boots as Dean wades into the water. “It’s still cold,” he hisses as he reaches the center. The water comes up to Dean’s mid hip, half his ass is visible through the soaked, thin white fabric of his underdrawers and Sam looks anywhere but there. “Shit,” Dean groans, his shoulders are pulled tight up to his ears as he cups himself under the water and Sam can’t help but laugh. 

“Lucky for you,” he says from the bank, “it can’t get much smaller.” 

“Oh,” Dean laughs as he turns around to face Sam, “oh okay, so that's how it’s going to be.” He takes a few steps forward, wading toward Sam. “I see,” he laughs. 

“Wait, Dean,” Sam says, putting his hands out to stop him, “no, no,” he laughs, ducking Dean’s advances. Despite Sam’s struggles, Dean manages to get him a headlock as he tries to pull him into the creek. Sam pushes Dean off him and into the water, then follows after him. It’s little things like this that makes Sam feel at home here. Just being able to be brothers and nothing more, without a care in the world for a moment. On rare occasions they managed to have those moments back before all this, but here it’s different, here they can just exist, together. Without the greater good. 

They wrestle each other, evenly matched as both try to dunk the other under the water. Both laughing as Sam manages to get the upper hand and Dean goes down taking Sam under with him. As his head breaks the surface to catch his breath Dean lunges for him again. Dean’s body unknowingly brushes up against him under the water again and again as they struggle and Sam’s cock reacts against his will. 

“Wait,” Sam says, suddenly going still, letting go of Dean’s shoulders as the moment is gone. “Wait, stop,” he says again, more firmly this time and Dean steps back, a look of concern on his face. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, as he looks him over. Sam can feel his cheeks flushing hot as Dean looks at him and Sam knows Dean isn’t this stupid. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, brushing his wet hair out of his face, “yeah I’m fine, I just,” he says then coughs, “I just need some space.” 

  


The temperature rises and falls as summer comes and goes. Behind the house, the leaves of the aspens fade to bright yellow as the days become shorter. They harvest what they’ve grown in the garden and try their hand at canning. It takes a few tries and more than a few broken glass jars, but soon the root cellar shelves are full of various canned fruits and vegetables. Neither of them knows if it will be enough to last them the winter, but at least they have a good start. 

In town, they stock up on blankets, warm clothes, and dry goods, lamp oil, and matches. Whole days are spent felling trees from the grove and chopping them into firewood. The shed by the pasture is filled with hay for the horses that should last them a few months. One day, they decide to carry the tin tub inside, they set it on the floor facing away from the far wall of the main room and Sam carves a hole into the floor under the drain. 

_October 17,1861_

_It’s freezing out already, I don’t know how they lived in this house without becoming wolfcicles. We have to get up every couple of hours to stoke the fire and it’s not even winter yet._

_I think this is going to be rough._


	9. November 23, 1861 - February 22, 1862

Winter hits suddenly, the first snowfall last for days.

A layer of soft, pure white snow blankets everything around them, making it impossibly quiet outside. The aspens behind the house, just a month ago covered in brilliant yellow are now bare twigs. The sprawling fields of wheat and grass, now dead and rotting under the show. Their colorful world has plunged into shade of miserable gray.

Inside the house, the fire is kept burning at all time, filling the room with flickering orange light. At night, they huddle together under the blankets, shivering against each other as they try to sleep. Their mornings are spent boiling snow for water and cooking hot food and coffee to warm up their chilled bodies.

**November 23, 1861**

It started as a cough. Dean didn’t notice at first, Sam excused himself to the other room or covered it with a throat clear. But soon, it was constant and he couldn’t hide it anymore. 

“I’m fine, Dean,” he insists, covering his mouth with his hand as he coughs, “it’s just a cold.”

“Here,” Dean says as he sets a cup of hot tea with honey and whiskey down on the table in from of Sam, “maybe this will help.” He takes the seat across the table and pulls his blanket around his shoulders.

Sam picks the tin cup up in both hands and sips, the heat of it soothes his sore throat as he swallows. “Thanks,” he says as he takes another drink.

“Cold or not, we’re going to get you better, okay?” Dean says, looking Sam over. Sam takes another drink and coughs out. He sets the cup down and covers his mouth with the blanket around his shoulders as he hacks. When he is finished, he sniffs and wipes his nose on the blanket as he sits back up straight. “Before you infect me,” Dean tries to joke, he grimaces as Sam coughs again.

  


**November 28, 1861**

It gets worse, some days Sam doesn’t even leave their bed for hours. He lays there, shivering under every blanket in the house, coughing and sniffing as Dean does the chores. Between tasks, Dean climbs in behind Sam and wraps his body around him. He rubs his hands up and down Sam’s arms, trying to warm him up as Sam groans.

Sleep offers him no relief, the fever dreams are the worst part. He cries out in pain, reacting violently to some unseen presence in his mind. He begs for it to stop in a hoarse voice between fits of coughing. Dean does his best to sooth him out of it, curling around Sam’s shaking body, holding him close as he tells him it’s okay, it’s not real.

He doesn’t bring it up when Sam is awake.

...

“I think it’s pneumonia,” Sam coughs as Dean nestles in behind him. His voice is weak and it sounds painful for him to speak. 

“I’ll go into town tomorrow,” Dean says as he smooths Sam’s damp hair down, “okay?” 

“No,” Sam says, turning to look at him, “I just have to wait it-” he coughs again, “out.” Sam’s face is pale, his forehead is shining with a thin layer of sweat and his nose is red and raw. He looks miserable and Dean wishes he knew how to make him feel better. 

“I’m sure there’s something the doctor can do to help,” he says, pulling Sam tighter against him. 

“Treatments from this time,” Sam clears his throat and groans in pain, “killed more people than they helped.” 

Dean’s lips curl up into a faint smile as he rests his head on Sam’s, “you’re such a nerd.” Sam starts to laugh weakly, his body convulses into a fit of coughs. He groans as he drops his head back against the pillow and stills. 

  


**November 29, 1861**

Dean finds a jar of frozen chicken stock they made a few months ago in the cellar and brings it up with some canned vegetables. He drops the jars into a pot of near the fire, they slowly thaw as he peels potatoes on the kitchen table. 

“Hey, Sam,” he calls out over his shoulder and Sam groans in response, “remember that time when you were, what, seven or eight? You got the flu at Pastor Jim’s and I got to stay home from school too. I tried to make you soup like dad did,” Dean chuckles as he thinks back, “I added so much salt it was inedible,” he smiles, “remember how you tried to eat it anyway because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings?” 

He finishes cutting up the potatoes and scoots back from the table. “How are you feeling?” He asks as he sits down on the bed next to Sam. Sam groans as Dean brushes his dirty hair out of his face. He presses the back of his hand to Sam’s damp forehead, he is still hot. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” Dean says as he stands. He tucks the blankets around Sam’s body and leaves to put a pot on to boil. The tub is nearly full by the time the broth is thawed, he dumps the thawing water into the tub and sets the broth and potatoes on to cook. 

Sam shivers as Dean peels the blankets off him. “Come on, buddy,” he says as he helps Sam out of the bed, “a hot bath will help with the congestion.” He supports Sam, too weak to walk on his own out into the main room. Sam sits down on one of the chairs as Dean helps him out of his clothes. 

“Alright, up you go,” Dean says as he lifts Sam up, resting his weight against his shoulder as he pulls Sam’s boxers down his legs. 

“Thanks,” Sam coughs out weakly against Dean’s shoulder. 

“This’ll make you feel better,” Dean assures, supporting Sam’s weight as he steps into the tub, “there you go.” 

Sam sits in the tub and shivers with his knees pulled up to his chest as Dean grabs a small towel and soap from the kitchen. He walks back into the main room and kneels beside the tub. “Lean forward,” Dean says as he guides Sam’s shoulders. He dumps cup fulls of hot water over Sam’s hair carefully as he runs his fingers through it. “How does that feel?” 

“Good,” Sam says weakly. Dean nods and rubs his wet hands over the bar of soap, gathering lather on his skin. Sam stops shivering and his body starts to relax as the water warms him up. Dean rubs his soapy fingers against Sam’s scalp and Sam closes his eyes, relaxing as Dean works. When he’s finished, he dumps water over Sam’s hair again, rinsing it clean then grabs the towel. He dunks it into the water the rubs the soap against it. 

“Alright, arm up.” He holds Sam’s arm up next to his head as he scrubs Sam’s skin until he smells fresh again, rinsing it and adding more soap as he goes. “And the other one,” he says as he lifts Sam’s other arm. Dean rubs the towel against Sam’s shoulders and down his back. His hand stills as he looks down at the faint scar, low on Sam’s spine then clears his throat and continues. 

Dean keeps his eyes on the far wall as he dips his hand into the water and scrubs down Sam’s stomach and lower. “Sorry,” he says as he reaches between Sam’s legs, “I know this is, uh-” 

“S’okay,” Sam says quietly as he lays his head back against the tub, his eyes still closed as he spreads his legs a little to give him more room. Dean swallows, nodding as he cups Sam’s cock in his towel covered hand and rubs it gently. As he cleans him, Sam lets out a soft moan and Dean lets go. 

“Okay,” Dean says quietly as his mouth goes dry, “okay, almost finished.” He rubs more soap on the towel, suddenly in a hurry to finish. Carefully, he reaches down further, pushing it between Sam’s cheeks, cleaning him as well as he can at the odd angle before withdrawing his hand. 

“Alright, little brother,” Dean says, clearing his throat as he drops the towel into the water and stands, “you are done.” He lifts Sam’s arms up and slides his own under them to lift him out of the water. 

He goes to the kitchen to grab more towels, Sam wraps his arms around himself, shivering as he waits for Dean to return. He sets the towels on the table and helps Sam out of the tub, then sits him down on one of the chairs by the fire. Sam coughs as Dean rubs a towel through his hair, then wraps it around his head. He rubs Sam’s wet body down carefully, drying him while trying to ignore that fact that Sam is hard. 

“Uh,” Dean says as he pulls a pair of clean white cotton underdrawers up Sam’s legs, “I need you to sit up so I can get you covered up, okay?” Sam nods and leans forward as he lifts himself off the chair. Dean gets the underdrawers over Sam’s hips and buttons the fly, carefully avoiding Sam’s cock. When he’s finished, he grabs some blankets from the bed and wraps them around Sam’s shoulders. “Soup’s almost done,” he says as he pulls them closed around him, “you hungry?” 

Sam nods his head. Dean dishes him up a bowl and helps him eat it. “S’good,” Sam says as he takes another spoonful. 

“You’re not just saying that, right?” Dean says with a soft smile and Sam shakes his head. 

“Thank you,” Sam says weakly and Dean pats him on the knee. 

“Sure, Sammy.” 

Dean walks Sam back to the bedroom and holds the blankets open as Sam climbs in. He shivers as he curls in around himself. Dean stokes the fire, making sure they will have a few hours of heat before he has to put another log on, then climbs in behind Sam. He wraps his arms around Sam and presses his body against Sam’s back. Sam coughs as Dean bushes his damp hair out of his face. 

Softly, Dean presses a kiss to Sam’s temple and nestles his head down behind Sam’s. “Good night,” he whispers but Sam is already asleep. 

  


_December 4, 1861_

_Sam is feeling much better. He’s still sick but his cough has almost completely cleared and he can move around without help now. For a few days I was afraid he wasn’t going to get well. He can sleep through the night now, the fever dreams seem to have passed. I hate feeling helpless, especially when Sam is suffering._

_It’s still freezing out, no change there. I am not looking forward to the months ahead of us. Spring cannot come fast enough. I haven’t heard from Rusty in almost a month, I guess the snow is keeping all of us locked in._

at the bottom of the page, he scribbles in a small note: 

_\-- Sam seems to have no memory of that night in the tub and I can’t help but feel guilty about it. I didn’t mean to-- I should have known better._

… 

_December 18, 1861_

_Christmas is coming up._

_We’re just about snowed in, there’s no making it into town any time soon. We’ve got enough food to last us for a while so it shouldn’t be a problem._

… 

_December 26, 1861_

_We spent Christmas night drinking and reminiscing about old times. It was nice, but at the same time it wasn’t. There’s a huge elephant in the room neither of us will acknowledge and it’s not going away._

… 

_January 01, 1862_

_It’s officially 1862._

_We’ve been here ten months now, still no signs of Cas or anyone else. It’s a new year and my resolution is to survive as long as we can while we try to find a way to get home._

_Also I’m going to stop shaving and embrace my ruggedly handsome side._

… 

_January 24, 1862_

_Well, it’s my 33rd birthday. This time last year I was eating take out with Lisa and Ben in our warm, comfortable house. We were doing good, I was almost happy. As close to happy as I got that year probably._

_I will never forgive myself for showing up on their doorstep when I was desperate and out of my mind with grief. They didn’t deserve that and they would have been better off if I never came back into their lives. I put so much on them._

_They saved me._

_Without them I would have never made it long enough to see Sam again and for that I will always be grateful. But at the same time, I hate myself for leaving them. The moment I saw Sam, sitting across from me in that room, I knew it was over… Lisa knew it was over._

_I’m not usually one for praying, but I pray they’re okay. I pray that they’re happy and that Ben can forgive me for leaving. I know how it feels to trust someone, to let them in only to have them walk out on you._

… 

_February 14, 1862_

_I’ve been thinking a lot about what Sam said, about wanting a dog? We made it through winter relatively fine and I know it would mean a lot to him, I think I’m going to surprise him with one for his birthday, or sooner if I find one I think he would like._

_I know, I know, but Dean, isn’t your second rule ‘no dogs’? Yes! But I know how happy it would make him and I just can’t pass that up._

… 

_February 22, 1862_

_Tensions are starting to run high._

_I’m struggling to keep acting like everything is fine. I’ve been doing it for so long it should be second nature by now, but here it’s so much harder to keep it up. It’s getting close to impossible to be in the same room with him sometimes, which is especially difficult because we really only have the two rooms._

_I don’t know how much longer I can do this._


	10. February 24, 1862 - February 25, 1862

**February 24, 1862**

“Hey,” Sam sighs as Dean walks through the front door. Tiny snowflakes drift into the room, carried on the cold air rushing in as Dean knocks the snow off his boots on the doorframe. He shuts the door behind him and the heat from the fire begins to warm the room again.

“Hey,” Dean says back as he drops the flour sack of supplies down on the floor in front of him. It’s early evening and Dean has been gone all day. “The Millers’ cows keep going missing,” he says as he pulls his hat and coat off and hangs them on the hook by the door to dry. “Rusty’s getting a posse together in the morning to try to tack some of them down,” he continues. The fire crackles to life as he sets another split log on it, sending glowing embers floating out into the darkened room. He rubs his freezing hands together and holds them out in front of the fire for a moment then turns around.

“Getting a started a little early there, Sam?” he asks, pointing to the half empty bottle in front of Sam on the table.

“Guess’so,” Sam says, his face flushed and eyes glassy as he takes another drink.

“You okay?” Dean asks as a courtesy but he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs, “yeah, m’fine.”

“Okay,” Dean says as he sits down next to Sam, “if you say so.”

“Here.” Sam hands him the bottle, “have some.” He crosses his arms on the table in front of him and drops his head down onto them. “So I’m not drinking alone,” he says, his voice muffled against his shirt sleeve.

Dean takes the bottle and swallows as much as he can at once, coughing out as it burns down his throat. He gasps for breath as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, the warmth of it permeates through his body immediately. He clears his throat and taps the bottle against Sam’s arm.

Sam lifts his head and takes the bottle from Dean’s hand. Dean watches Sam’s throat work as he takes another long drink. Something is wrong, this isn’t like Sam. Dean is usually the one to be drunk before six on a Tuesday, trying to drown his problems in a pity party for one. Not Sam.

“Here,” Sam chokes out as he hands Dean the bottle again. Time feels like it passes slow as they drink into the night. The fire crackles and pops loudly in the heavy silence of the room as it burns. Dean watches the flames dance in front of him, bright orange and yellow, as he takes another long swig. He sets the nearly empty bottle down and closes his eyes, sinking back against the chair as he relaxes into the pleasant fuzzy feeling. 

“Dean?” His name leaves Sam’s lips with a sound just above a whisper, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Dean to hear or not. Dean opens his eyes, his head spinning slightly as he looks over to Sam. The fire light is reflecting off Sam’s shining eyes as he looks at him and Dean sits up cautiously. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dean asks as he plays with the peeled up corner of the label on the bottle.

“For everything,” Sam says finally. He swallows hard as he sits up and Dean’s stomach sinks as Sam looks at him with heartbroken eyes. “For ever telling you I didn’t want you.” The sobering words hit Dean hard as they claw their way into his ribcage, constricting his lungs tight as he struggles for breath. “It was a lie, Dean,” Sam says quietly as he leans over and lifts his heavy arm, trying to cup Dean’s face.

Dean slaps Sam’s hand away from him, “shut up,” he warns.

“Dean, I mean it,” Sam begs Dean to listen as Dean pushes his chair away from the table. “I need you-”

“Sam,” Dean says firmly, cutting him off as he stands.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says again as he grabs a hold of Dean’s wrist. His skin feels like it’s on fire under Sam’s touch as he looks down at him. Something deep inside Dean ignites, burning him from the inside out as he struggles against the pull Sam has on him.

He’s kissing Sam before he can stop himself. Sam’s lips are warm and inviting, moving tentatively against his as Dean breathes out. He closes his eyes as he moves, gripping Sam’s jaw as he pushes closer. He draws his eyebrows in tight as his head clears and just as soon as it happened, he pulls away.

“Dammit, Sam,” he growls, letting go of Sam’s face.

“Please?” Sam begs, wrapping his fist in Dean’s shirt as he leans back in.

“We are not doing this,” Dean insists as he pulls Sam’s hands off him. He leaves Sam alone with the bottle as he walks out of the room without another word, still feeling the ghost of Sam’s lips on his.

  


**February 25, 1862**

Sam wakes up alone in the cold house. His head is pounding and he feels sick. He rolls over, facing the empty bed next to him and looks around for any sign of Dean, in the living room he finds Dean’s pillow and a few blankets on the floor. 

His head is still fuzzy as he goes over what happened the night before. He walks around the table and picks up the empty bottle sitting in front of him, suddenly it hits him. Panic rises as he opens the front door and calls out Dean’s name into the cold morning air. He waits for a response that doesn’t come. For years, he has been afraid of his exact thing, of slipping up and saying something stupid, but most of all, he has been terrified Dean would him. 

He heads out to saddle his horse and notices Dean’s is gone, there are hoof prints in the patches of snow leading toward town. Sam takes a deep breath as he climbs onto his horse, he has to find Dean before he gets too far, he has to explain. His horse's hooves pound the still frozen earth as he gallops down the path. 

His stomach twists into sick knots as he rounds a corner and sees Dean’s horse standing next to a tree on the side of the path. He pulls back on his reins to slow his horse as he rides up to it. Dean is sitting at the base, facing away from him and Sam lets out a sigh of relief as he stops. “Hey,” Sam says, clearing his throat. “Dean, I shouldn’t have-” he stops, trying to find the right words, “I didn’t mean it.” 

“You didn’t mean it?” Dean asks flatly without looking up at him. 

“No,” he lies, “I was drunk, it won’t happen again.” Sam swallows around the guilt caught in his throat. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “that’s what you keep saying.” He pulls a piece of dead grass apart and tosses it onto the ground in front of him. 

“I know I crossed a line last night I should have never crossed,” Sam says as he climbs off his horse. “Just please,” he pauses for a moment as he struggles with the words, “don’t leave.” 

“I’m not going to leave, Sam.” Dean says as he finally looks up at him and Sam’s heart sinks, he looks so broken. Dean stands, letting out a sigh as he brushes the snow off his trousers. 

“It won’t happen again, I swear,” Sam repeats, all but begging Dean to forgive him. 

“How about you get back on your horse and shut up about it, huh?” Dean says as he starts toward his horse. 

“Dean,” Sam says, reaching out to stop him. Suddenly, Dean grabs a hold of Sam’s shirt and pushes him up against the tree. 

“You-” Dean cuts off as he pushes Sam hard against the tree again, knocking the breath out of his lungs. “You left me. I begged you not to and you left anyway,” Dean growls, “and then you met Jess and you left me again. I was,” he pauses for a moment as he looks down at the ground. “You broke me, Sam,” he admits. 

There is a moment of silence between them as Dean twists his hands in the fabric of Sam’s shirt. 

“You were the one who left _me_!” Dean pushes Sam again and drops his hands to his sides as he takes a step back. “I never stopped, Sam,” he says as his voice shakes, “I never stopped!” he yells. Birds take off into the sky above them as Sam crumbles under the weight of his guilt. 

“Dean,” he says softly. 

“No,” Dean growls, “no, you shut up,” he says, pointing at Sam. “Nine years, Sam. Nine years,” he pauses, running his hand down his face as he turns around, “and now you show up and tell me you didn’t mean any of it? That you were drunk?” he asks, turning back to Sam, “fuck you, sam,” he spits. “Fuck you.” 

Sam steps forward into Dean’s space again, this time pressing his lips to Dean’s before Dean can stop him. Dean pulls back and punches Sam in the jaw, sending him stumbling back against the tree. Sam lays his hand on the tender skin of his face as he looks back at Dean. Dean’s chest is heaving and his eyes are wild, he looks like a caged animal ready to kill. 

“I wanted to tell you for so long,” Sam admits, “but I thought-” 

“What?” Dean asks, “that you lost that right when you told me you didn’t want me in your life anymore? That I was too much of a, what was it, ‘ _a distraction_ ’? You thought I’d leave you like you left me?” 

“Dean, I didn’t-” 

“Stop, Sam!” Dean groans, “you did mean it!” 

“I never stopped either, Dean!” Sam yells, unable to stop himself, “you know the guilt I’ve felt this entire time? Knowing what I did to you, knowing that I hurt you? And then having to face you every goddamn day while you acted like everything was fine? Like nothing happened?” Sam asks, “like it didn’t even matter to you? Of course I was afraid you’d leave if I told you I didn’t mean it all along, can you blame me?” Dean lets out an annoyed laugh as he rolls his eyes. “I fucked up, Dean. I did. Bad. And you have every right to be pissed.” 

“Damn right I do.” 

“But that hurt? That guilt? That’s because we care, Dean, about each other. Those feelings? They never went away, they just changed,” Sam says as he takes a careful step forward. “They never went away,” he repeats, softer this time. 

Dean pushes Sam up against the tree again. They’re still for a moment, Dean holding onto the fabric of Sam’s shirt in tight fists. Sam takes a deep breath as he waits for Dean to hit him again, he closes his eyes and exhales. Dean’s lips are on his suddenly, kissing him rough and hungry. He lets go of Sam’s shirt and cups the back of his neck, twisting his fingers into Sam’s hair as he pulls him closer. They breathe hard through their noses, teeth bumping as they rush to taste every long forgotten inch of each other’s mouth. 

Sam bites down on Dean’s bottom lip gently as he lays his hands on either side of Dean’s face, pulling him into him. His heart pounds, he can feel himself trembling as the emotions he repressed for so long flood to the surface. 

And then it is over as Dean steps back again and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “We should get back to the house.” 

“Yeah,” Sam nods again, “yeah, we should.” 

… 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asks as they eat together quietly at the table. 

“Yeah?” Dean says around a mouthful of food. 

“Are we okay?” 

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says as he looks down at his plate. He pokes at his food with his fork and Sam doesn’t believe him. He knows Dean well enough that pressing things when he won't talk only leads to fights, and that is the last thing Sam wants, especially now. 

“Okay,” Sam nods, glancing from Dean to his food. 

That night, Sam blows out the lamps as Dean gets into bed. He gathers a few blankets out of the chest at the foot of the bed and starts to head into the living room. 

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” Sam hears Dean say in the darkness. 

“Are you sure? Because I-” 

“Just get in bed, Sam,” Dean groans. 

Sam sets the blankets on the dresser and climbs under the covers next to Dean. He lays down on his back, sure to keep a distance between them as they lay together in silence, both staring up into the darkness as they wait for sleep to draw them under.


	11. August 12, 2001 - October 15, 2001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback chapter, yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly nsfw art at the end of the chapter, just a heads up!
> 
> Warning for implied/non graphic bottom Sam, for those who are bothered by it.

**August 12, 2001: Springer, NM**

Dean balances the cigarette between his parted lips as he holds the flame to the end of it. He sets his lighter down on the bedside table, his lungs filling with heated smoke as he inhales deep. Smoke curls up toward the water stained ceiling as he lays back against the wrinkled sheets and exhales into the thick air of the motel room. His body feels heavy in the lingering afterglow as he turns over onto his side and hands Sam the cigarette.

Sam is laying on his back, his naked body bathed in the faint yellow glow of the cheap bedside lamps. His skin shining with a thin layer of sweat. Dean watches Sam’s cheeks hollow as he takes a drag and smiles. He doesn’t have a name for what Sam means to him. The way his smile makes Dean feel safe, the way his voice makes him feel secure. Or the way Sam’s body makes him feel like he belongs. The closest thing, Dean figures, is Sam feels like home. 

Dean reaches out and brushes his fingertips across Sam’s ribs, making him shiver. Sam’s lips curl into a lazy smile around the cigarette as he rolls over onto his stomach. He holds it between his fingers as he leans in a presses his lips to Dean’s, slow and soft. Dean’s hands skim across Sam’s heated skin, his fingers dancing down the knobs of Sam’s spine as they kiss. Too soon, Sam pulls back with a sweet smile and takes another drag.

After a moment, Sam passes the cigarette to Dean and rolls back over. Silence hangs in the air between them like the smoke from their lungs as they look up at the ceiling.

“Do you ever think about having a normal life?” Sam asks as he looks up at the water stains.

“Sure,” Dean says as he exhales, “but I don’t think it’s for me.” He sits up and taps the ash off the end into the ashtray on the bedside table.

“Do you think we could ever get out?” Sam asks, turning to look at Dean, “together, I mean.”

Dean reaches out and brushes Sam’s damp bangs away from his face with a smile, “maybe someday.”

  


**August 25, 2001: Casper WY**

Dean digs through his duffel bag, looking for a clean shirt to wear. He huffs as he pulls shirt after shirt out, they should have done laundry last week when they had the chance. 

“I’m borrowing a shirt!” Dean calls out over the sound of the running shower then opens Sam’s bag without waiting for an answer. He pulls clothes out, smell testing them for freshness until he feels a piece of paper at the bottom. Curiosity gets the better of him as he pulls it out, it is a letter, an official looking letter. He reads the return address and his stomach drops. 

_Stanford Office of Admissions_

He sits down on the edge of the bed, looking down at the letter in disbelief. The shower shuts off and he listens as Sam goes about his routine on the other side of the half open door. It feels like ages pass before the door swings open and Sam steps into the room, rubbing a towel through his hair. Dean looks up at him and Sam’s eyes go wide, looking back between Dean and the letter in his hands. 

“Dean-” Sam starts, stepping closer to him. 

“Were you even going to tell me?” Dean asks, looking up at Sam with broken eyes. 

“Of course I was going to tell you,” Sam says as he sits down on the bed next to him, “I got into Stanford, Dean.” 

“I can’t believe you did this,” Dean says, looking back down at the letter, “are you going to go?” 

“Yes,” Sam says quietly. He wraps his hand around Dean’s holding the letter and squeezes it tight. “I want you to come with me.” 

“Sam-” 

“I want us to get out of this life,” Sam cuts him off, “I want us to be safe, together.” Dean closes his eyes as he listens. “This is our chance, Dean.” Sam’s words paint a pretty picture and Dean wants so badly to believe it could work, that they could do it, but he knows his choice has already been made for him. 

“I can’t.” The words choke him as he says them, “I can’t leave dad.” He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, “you know that.” 

  


**September 02, 2001: Twin Falls, ID**

Dean doesn’t know how dad found out but it is late and they’re screaming at each other in the kitchen of the run down house they are staying in. He steps up between them, pushing John back against the counter and yelling at Sam to stop. He looks at John, silently pleading with him to walk away, to just let it go, but then John says the words that haunted Dean for years after, the words that changed everything: “If you walk out that door,” he yells as he points to the front door, “don’t bother coming back!” 

Sam stops immediately. He drops his hands to his sides and the look on his face scares Dean, he has never see Sam look so hurt. Sam turns suddenly and heads down the hallway toward his bedroom without saying another word. 

“Sam, stop,” Dean pleads as he follows him. Sam pushes his bedroom door open, sending it slamming into the wall. 

“You heard him, Dean,” Sam says as he drops his duffel bag and backpack onto his bed. 

“He doesn’t mean it,” Dean insists, “you both said some pretty fucked up things, okay?” He watches from the doorway as Sam throws his things into the bags. “Don’t do this, man,” Dean pleads, “just stop.” 

Sam zips his bags up and throws his backpack over his shoulder. He pushes passed Dean into the hallway and Dean reaches out, grabbing a hold of Sam’s sleeve. Sam turns back to him and pulls his arm out of his grip. 

“Sam!” Dean calls out after him as he follows him out the front door into the rain, “Sam, stop!” 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sam says as he turns around. 

“Just stay,” Dean begs, “don’t leave. Just stay so we can be a family, dad didn’t mean it.” 

“Fuck dad!” Sam yells, flipping the house off as rain runs down his face, “I can’t do this anymore, Dean,” he repeats, “you have to understand that.” Dean stands silently as his clothes soak through, he’s at the edge of a cliff and Sam is asking him to step off. 

“Come with me,” Sam says, “please?” 

“I can’t, Sam. I can’t do that to dad,” Dean says and it breaks his heart. Sam lets out a half hearted laugh as he looks up into the light of the street lamp above them. 

“Can you at least give me a ride to the bus station?” 

... 

Dean sits in the car, listening to the crackling radio over the sound of rain pounding on metal and glass as Sam buys his ticket. He watches streams of water run down the windshield, distorting the building in front of him as he thinks. Sam opens the door suddenly, making Dean jump, then climbs in and shuts the door behind him. He sets the heaters so they’re blowing full blast and Dean watches the water drip off Sam’s bangs as he holds his hands out in front of him. 

As they sit in silence, Dean tries to think of something to say, anything to change Sam’s mind as he stares down at the steering wheel. Sam sets his damp ticket down on the dashboard and Dean’s stomach twists into knots, seeing it laid out in front of him makes everything too real. 

“I bought two tickets,” Sam says as he scoots across the seat until he’s sitting next to Dean, “come with me.” His lips brush against Dean’s jaw, making him shiver. 

“Sammy, please don’t do this.” Dean’s voice shakes as he speaks, “you know I can’t.” 

“Will you at least come visit?” Sam asks as he wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. 

“Of course I will,” Dean says as he tips Sam’s chin up. As if there was a force on Earth that could keep him away from Sam. He holds Sam close until his bus pulls into the parking lot, his stomach feels like it’s in his throat. 

“That’s my ride,” Sam says with a soft smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

“Be safe,” Dean manages as Sam opens the door, “take care of yourself.” 

Sam grabs his bags and stops. He climbs back across the seat and kisses Dean, reassuring him with the soft press of his lips that everything will be okay. He gives Dean one last smile as he climbs back out, then shuts the door behind him. Dean watches Sam disappear into the folding doors of the bus. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat as it pulls away. 

The liquor store in town is still open so he pulls into the parking lot. He shuts the car off and walks inside to buy a few bottles. Their house is dark when he gets back so he parks in the driveway and drinks himself stupid there. He drops his head against his hands, gripping the steering wheel tight as he finally breaks down. 

He doesn’t talk to John for a week. 

  


**October 15, 2001: Clarksburg, IN**

“I really am proud of you,” Dean says, sitting on his bed in the dimly lit motel room. 

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam’s voice is soft on the other end of the line. “I miss you,” he says and Dean closes his eyes. He presses the phone against his chest and looks over to their dad, fast asleep in the next bed. 

“I miss you so fucking much,” Dean confesses quietly, “so fucking much.” 

“I wish you were closer so you could come see me,” Sam says and Dean can hear the smile on his lips, “it’s lonely here.” 

“As soon as dad picks up a case even a few hours away, I’m driving to you as fast as I can. I don’t care if it takes all night,” Dean insists. He looks back over to their dad again as he pulls the covers over himself. He lowers his voice to almost a whisper, “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Sam lets out a satisfied hum as Dean slips his hand into his boxers. 

“What part of me would you taste first?” Sam asks, his voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine. 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out, rubbing himself as he closes his eyes, “your-” 

“Shit,” Sam says as Dean hears a scramble and then a door closing on the other end of the line, “I have to go, my roommate’s back.” 

Dean lets out a frustrated sigh as he pulls his hand out of his waistband. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?” Dean promises as he drops his head back against the headboard. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Okay,” Dean says quietly. 

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

“Night, Sam.” 

Dean closes the phone and sets it down on the bedside table. He shuts off the lamp and lays down, listening to John snore quietly as he tries to fall asleep. 

  
  



	12. December 06, 2001 - October 31, 2005

**December 06, 2001: Fallon, NV**

Dean sneaks away while John is out. He scribbles down a little note telling him he is going to go see Sam, that he will be back tomorrow night, and not to worry. He sets it under the ashtray on the coffee table and locks the door behind him.

The drive is long, four hours down I-80. Dean watches the mile markers fly past as the radio blasts out classic rock hits. The signs for Palo Alto come into view just before midnight. He pulls over near the Stanford campus and dials Sam’s number.

“Hey!” Sam says on the other end of the line and Dean feels his stomach flutter with excitement.

“Heya, Sam,” Dean says with a smile, “guess where I am.”

“Are you close?” Sam blurts out and Dean grins as he looks out the window.

“You could say that,” Dean laughs.

“Are you here?” Sam asks excitedly.

“I’m in Palo Alto-”

“Where are you? I’ll text you directions,” Sam rushes as Dean can’t stop smiling.

…

Dean pulls into a gas station parking lot and shuts off the car. A little bell rings as he walks through the door into the harsh fluorescent light of the room. He heads to the refrigerators at the back of the store and grabs a six pack of Miller. The man behind the counter sets his magazine down as Dean walks up. He sets the beer down and notices the display of souvenir key chains with names printed on them. He searches through them curiously as the man rings up the beer, until he finds one that say SAM.

“This too,” he says, setting the keychain down on the counter, “and a box of condoms.”

“She’s a very lucky girl,” the man says sarcastically.

…

Dean can feel his palms sweating, nervous like he’s picking up a highschool crush for a first date as he stands in front of Sam’s building. He lets out a breath as he texts Sam that he’s here. It takes less than a minute before the door swings open and Sam pulls him inside and kisses him. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says as he pulls back. Sam is standing in front of him for the first time in months, wearing a loose t-shirt that used to be Dean’s and faded gray sweatpants. His hair is longer than Dean remembers and the smile on his face is as bright as the goddamn sun.

“Told you I’d be here as soon as I could, didn’t I?” Dean asks as Sam takes hold of his free hand and leads him up the stairs toward his room. They get to his door quickly and Dean waits, his body humming with nervous excitement as Sam unlocks his door.

His room is dim, illuminated by colorful Christmas lights draped around the walls. Dean closes the door behind him and barely sets the beer down on the desk before Sam’s lips are on his again. They pull their clothes off as they kiss, hands roaming bare skin as they make up for lost time. Dean unbuckles his belt with fumbling fingers and pulls the buttons of his fly apart. He shoves his jeans down his legs and kicks them off as he takes hold of Sam again.

Sam walks them back and drops down onto his bed. He pulls Dean closer by the hips and presses wet kisses to the heated skin of Dean’s stomach. Dean tries to steady his breathing as he watches Sam slide his boxers down his hips. He runs his fingers through Sam’s soft hair as Sam wraps his sugar sweet lips around him and swallows him down. 

“Wait,” Dean breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut as Sam mouths down his length. “Sam, wait,” he groans. Sam pulls back and licks his lips as he looks up at Dean curiously.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks with his shining pink mouth and Dean can’t help himself. He leans down, catching Sam’s lips as Sam lets out a small moan.

“What about your roommate?” Dean asks against Sam’s lips.

“Brady?” Sam asks as Dean stand up straight again, “he’s out for the night,” Sam smiles up at him as he strokes Dean’s cock slowly, “he owed me a favor.”

“Good,” Dean says as he steps out of his boxers. He climbs onto the bed and Sam scoots backward until he’s resting on his pillows. Dean pulls Sam’s boxers down, exposing the flushed skin Dean longed for. He licks his lips as Sam lifts his hips so Dean can pull them the rest of the way off. He looks down at Sam’s bare body, warm and inviting. The colorful lights reflect off his skin and Dean will never know how he got so lucky.

Dean reaches out and ghost his fingertips over the velvety soft skin of Sam’s cock as it rests against his hip. He watches the muscles in Sam’s stomach flex at the touch and Dean swallows hard.

“Missed you so much,” he breathes out as he looks up into Sam’s dark eyes as he watches him touch him.

“Missed you too,” Sam says as he looks at Dean and smiles. He takes hold of Dean’s hand and pulls him over him. Dean hovers above Sam for a moment, looking down at Sam’s inviting smile, then leans down and kisses him again.

… 

They lay tangled together on Sam’s bed, a shining layer of sweat on their skin. Dean bushes Sam’s hair away from his eyes and presses a kiss to his temple. Sam huffs out an exhausted laugh as he drops his head down against Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll never get tired of that.”

“Me neither,” Dean smiles as he nestles his head down against Sam’s hair. He watches Sam play with the amulet resting on his chest as he brushes his fingers against Sam’s skin absentmindedly.

  


**December 07, 2001: Palo Alto, CA**

Sam wakes to the morning sun coming in through the curtains next to his bed. Careful not to wake Dean, he climbs off the mattress and gathers their clothes off the floor. He sets them on the desk and reaches for Dean’s jacket, as he lifts it something falls out of the pocket. He kneels down to pick up the Stanford keychain with his name written in big white letter on the cardinal red background. He smiles as he turns it over in his hand. The bed dips as he climbs back onto it and straddles Dean’s hips. He leans in and presses soft kisses to Dean’s slack lips until they curl up into a lazy smile. 

“Morning,” Sam says against Dean’s lips. 

“Good morning,” Dean grins. He yawns and stretches as Sam rolls off him and lays down on his back, pressed against Dean’s side. 

Sam holds the key chain above them so they can both see it and rubs his thumb across the smooth surface. “Is this for me?” he asks. 

“It’s stupid, I know,” Dean says and Sam looks over at him. He gives him a soft smile and kisses him again. 

“It’s not stupid, Dean, I love it. Thank you,” he says as he sets it down on the nightstand next to the box of condoms. He sits up and climbs over Dean again, resting back on his hips. 

“You’re welcome,” Dean says with a grin. 

… 

“I have to get back or dad is going to tan my hide,” Dean says as he buttons his jeans. 

“Or you could just stay here, with me,” Sam suggests from the bed. 

“Sam, you know I can’t,” Dean insists as he pulls his shirt on, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” 

“Promise?” Sam asks. 

“Promise.” 

Dean can still smell Sam on him as he drives back to Nevada. 

  


**December 18, 2003**

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says with a smile as he picks up the phone. 

“Hey,” Sam says. Something in his voice is off and Dean begins to worry. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Sam says, “but we need to talk.” 

Dean’s stomach drops. “About what?” 

“You remember Jess?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah, the girl you’ve been seeing?” Dean asks, still confused. 

“I love her,” Dean hears Sam say quietly, “I’m _in love_ with her. I think she’s the one, Dean.” The line is quiet for a moment as Dean takes in Sam’s words, “I think I want to marry her. I want a real life, a family,” he pauses, “of my own.” 

“Okay,” Dean says and the line goes quiet again. “That’s great, Sam. Congratulations,” he forces a smile, “but what does that mean for us?” The line is silent as Dean waits. 

“I-” Sam start and then stops again. “When I’m around you,” he pauses, “I just, I really want this to work out, and if you’re in my life, Dean, I’ll never be able to trust myself not to mess it up.” 

“Sam-” Dean swallows hard, “what are you saying?” 

“I can’t have you as a distraction, Dean. I’m sorry.” 

Click. 

  


**December 19, 2003 - October 31, 2005**

Dean’s world implodes around him, dragging him inward on himself into a black hole of despair. He is a shell of his former self, an empty husk of a man slowly losing his grip. Drying up and blowing away in the wind as he struggles to hold himself together. The bottle offers some comfort, at least when he drinks himself stupid he can sleep. For those few hours he is nothing, as close to death as he can get without making the commitment. 

Every morning he wakes up to an empty bed and a fight to get up and do it all over again. Giving everything he has left to the job helps, it keeps his mind off things and gives him something else to focus on. Eventually, things get better. Getting out of bed gets easier and he starts drinking less and less. On a solo job in Ohio he meets a girl named Cassie. For the first time in almost a year, he feels like maybe he has a chance at happiness again. He falls hard, putting everything he has into their relationship, he felt like she could be his salvation. 

He bares his soul to her, opens up and lets her in like he had only ever let Sam. 

When she walks away from him he shuts down, he feels nothing. He goes on with his life, continues working with John. He hunts and fucks his way across the states, burying every feeling deep down until he hides completely behind a wall of careless bravado. He won’t let anyone in to hurt him again. 

John leaves him on a Tuesday and Dean drives two days to California, straight to the only person he has left.


	13. February 26, 1862

**February 26, 1862**

Sam wakes to the strong smell of coffee simmering and salt cured ham frying over the fire in the next room. Consciousness brings with it thoughts of yesterday that twist his stomach into sick knots. He pulls the quilts up under his chin and nestles into his pillow, trying to savor the warmth of their bed for a few more minutes before getting up, before he has to face Dean again. He rubs his eyes and yawns as he sits up, waiting quietly for a moment, listening to Dean move in the kitchen as he tries to gather his nerves.

He climbs out of bed and pulls the quilt up to the pillows and takes his time smoothing it out, making sure every wrinkle is gone. The room is chilly so he grabs the overshirt he left on the chair against the wall and pulls it on as he walks through the doorway.

“Morning,” he says, rubbing his hand through his hair as he walks into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Dean says back without turning to look at him. Sam swallows as he stands uselessly in the middle of the room, trying to think of something to say. He settles on, “you’re up early,” as he watches Dean chop potatoes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean says flatly. Sam clears his throat as he walks over to the fire to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Ham, huh?” he asks, breaking the silence again as he pokes at the slab of meat in the pot. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers from the kitchen.

“Smells good,” Sam says as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Yup,” Dean says back. Sam watches as Dean gathers up the chopped potatoes and carries them passed him to the fireplace. He dumps them into the pot with the ham and they start to sizzle in the grease.

“Want help with anything?” Sam asks as Dean walks back into the kitchen.

“I got it,” Dean says and Sam nods as he sits down at the table. Minutes pass in silence as Dean occupies himself with busy work in the kitchen and Sam watches the fire crackle in front of him.

“So,” Sam starts, “is this what we’re doing?” he asks, turning back toward Dean, “are we just going to act like nothing happened? Because that worked out so well the first time.”

“Honestly?” Dean says as he stops and turns to face Sam, “I don’t know what to do, and yeah, that seemed like the easiest option.”

“Dean-”

“I’m just,” Dean huffs as he puts a hand out to stop Sam, “I think I’m going to need some time,” he pauses as he looks down at the floor, “to process everything,” he adds, gesturing between them.

“That’s fair,” Sam says, he knows he owes Dean that much. “I’ll leave it alone until you’re ready to talk.”

“Okay,” Dean nods as he grabs two plates and a serving spoon from the cupboard. He sets the plate down on the table and slides on over to Sam then takes the pot from the fire and carries it over. Sam watches as he dishes Sam’s plate up and dumps the rest onto his. They eat in silence, Sam glances up at Dean every so often but Dean’s eyes don’t leave his plate.

“This is really good,” Sam says as he picks up another fork full of potato, “thanks.”

“No problem,” Dean says around a mouthful of ham, finally looking up at Sam. Sam smiles and Dean looks back down at his food.

  


Dean listens to the sound of logs splitting outside, lost in his thoughts as Sam chops more firewood. He gathers up the scraps and potato peels from breakfast and carries them out to the compost pile against the back fence by the empty patch of snot that used to be their garden. 

“Think that’s enough?” Sam asks, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat as Dean walks back toward the house. 

“Yeah,” Dean says as he looks at the pile of freshly split logs next to Sam, “should last us a couple days.” 

“Good,” Sam nods as he sniffs back his running nose. He sets the axe against the house as Dean walks back through the door. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he says, following Dean into the warmth of the house. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook by the door and walks to the fireplace to grab the water pot. 

Sam heats pot after pot of water in silence as Dean busies himself with whatever he can find to do. He is sitting at the table looking down at his journal intently as Sam dumps the last of the water into the tub. The blank page stares back as Sam undresses quietly in front of him. As Sam kicks off his underdrawers Dean closes his journal and pushes his chair away from the table. 

“You don’t have to leave,” Sam says as he drops his hands to his sides, “nothing you haven’t seen before.” Dean can feel his eyes on him, watching him for a moment as he steps into the tub. Curiosity gets the better of Dean and his eyes flick up, moving down Sam’s naked body quickly before settling down on his journal again. He clears his throat but doesn’t move as Sam settles down into the hot water. 

“I know I said I’d give you time,” Sam says, looking up at Dean as he rubs the bar of soap against the wet kitchen towel. 

“Sam-” Dean groans, of course he couldn’t let it go. 

“Just let me say this, okay?” Sam asks as Dean looks back at him with tired eyes, “when you figure things out and if you decide you can forgive me, I’ll be there. Whatever you need.” 

Dean swallows hard as he looks over to Sam. 

“Anything,” Sam insists.


	14. The Night of February 26, 1862 - February 27, 1862

**The Night of February 26, 1862**

All his life, Dean never considered himself a strong man. His list of weaknesses is a mile long and at the very top, written in his own blood, is his brother’s name. He lays awake for most of the night, going over their last conversation again and again as he stares up into the darkness. It runs on a loop, always ending with the way Sam said, _‘anything’_. The word pools low in his gut, twisting his insides into burning knots as he struggle with the need he can’t ever seem to be rid of.

Nothing about this is easy. Facing Sam in the light of day brought back all the pain Dean struggled with for so many years flooding back to the surface. He can barely look at him anymore. But in the pitch black of their silent room, it is different. In the darkness it seems easier. He listens to the sound of Sam’s steady breathing beside him and wonders if he is still awake too. Dean lets out a deep breath as he closes his eyes, he never really stood a chance anyway.

The bed squeaks as he lifts their blankets and turns over onto his side, facing Sam’s back. He keeps space between their bodies but he can feel the warmth radiating from Sam and all he wants is to press himself against him. To wrap around him and feel Sam again, skin against skin as he loses himself in his brother. Under the cover of darkness, all he has are his memories and as bad as the bad are, they don’t stand a chance against the good.

Cautiously, he reaches out and his fingertips find the warmth of Sam’s skin. He skims along Sam’s hip with the faintest touch, just under the hem of his shirt. He feels a shiver roll through Sam’s body and for a moment, Dean considers turning back before this goes too far. Just rolling over and going to sleep, but he knows that was never really an option. He slides his hand down Sam’s stomach, brushing his fingers softly through the trail of coarse hair just under Sam’s belly button.

Dean hears Sam let out a content sigh as he plays with the worn waistband of Sam’s boxers and all at once he’s eighteen again, tentatively touching Sam for the first time under the covers of some motel in a no-name town while dad slept in the next bed. He stills his hand as he gets lost in his thought until Sam’s gentle voice brings him out of it.

“Don’t stop.”

Dean furrows his brow as the memories flood his mind, “that’s what you said the first time,” he whispers into the darkness.

“I meant it,” he hears Sam say quietly. Dean remembers how easy it was for them to cross that forbidden line. How it felt like the most natural thing in the world to share every part of himself with Sam, body and soul. He knows it’s cheesy but he didn't really ever feel complete until that last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Dean closes his eyes to the darkness surrounding them and swallows hard. Slowly, he slides his hand beneath Sam’s waistband, like any sudden movements might shatter this fragile connection between them. His fingers brush through the thick patch of coarse hair to the velvety soft skin at the base of Sam’s cock. A wave of heat rolls through his body, making him shiver as his stomach flips with nervous excitement. Sam lifts his knee, spreading his legs to give Dean more room as Dean licks his lips. He slides his fingers against Sam’s skin as he closes his hand around him. Dean’s heart jumps as Sam lets out a sigh and rolls his hips forward, pushing into Dean’s fist ever so slightly.

Everything feels like it’s running in slow motion, every touch of his skin against Sam’s is magnified by years of unfulfilled, soul deep need. He slides his hand down Sam’s hardening length, listening to Sam’s breathing change as he rubs his palm against the smooth skin at the tip. He swallows hard, his body trembling as Sam moans quietly in the darkness. Every beat of his heart pounds in his ears as he strokes Sam until he’s hard and rolling his hips to match Dean’s rhythm.

Dean slides his palm against the head of Sam’s cock again, letting out a shaky breath as he feels the wetness there smear across his skin. Sam’s hips still suddenly as Dean hears him let out a ragged sigh. For a moment Dean’s heart starts to race as the reality of the situation hits him, his stomach turns at the thought of being pushed away again. The cracks forming in the wall around the deepest parts of Dean’s soul, the vulnerable part he would never let anyone have again, become glaringly obvious. He starts to pull away, to close himself off from the inevitable pain of rejection. Then Sam moves.

The mattress dips as Sam rolls over to face him, the sound of their shared breathing fills the silence between them as Dean tries to focus on Sam’s face in the dark.

“Are you okay?”

Dean’s eyes fall shut at the soft brush of Sam’s lips against his as he speaks. “Is _this_ okay?” Sam asks quietly, resting his forehead against Dean’s.

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says as he cups Sam’s jaw. He can feel Sam’s heart racing against his fingertips as Sam presses his lips to Dean’s, “this is okay.”

Sam kisses him gently, his lips move against Dean’s as Dean opens up to him. Dean’s hand moves down Sam’s side and pushes up under his shirt as they kiss. He skims the heated skin of Sam’s side, feeling Sam shiver under his fingertips. Their lips part and Dean swallows hard as Sam moves again. He lifts the blankets and climbs over as he settles half on top of him. One thigh hitched up, pressed against Dean’s cock and his own resting heavy against Dean’s hip.

Their lips meet again as Sam starts to move, rolling his hips as he rubs against him. His body responds automatically to Sam’s, like no time has passed between them, melting against him until all that’s left is _them_. He lets out a choked off moan as he moves, matching Sam’s rhythm as they rock together with natural fluidity. Dean reaches up and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him tight against him and losing himself in the way Sam’s body moves against his. He breaks their kiss, panting against Sam’s cheek as their pace picks up.

It starts low in his gut, the too soon pressure building slowly, spreading through him as his body begins to tense under Sam’s. He closes his eyes tight, his toes begin to curl against the sheet as he grips Sam’s shirt in his fists.

“Come on, Dean.” He hears Sam groan into the crook of his neck and all at once, his body contracts with wave after wave as he spills into his underdrawers against Sam’s stomach. A low moan escapes his lips as the last of his aftershocks pass through him. Sam moves at an almost desperate pace now, rubbing against Dean’s oversensitive body as he kisses Dean again, it’s sloppy and uncoordinated and Dean doesn’t want it to end.

Sam comes with a groan. He rubs himself through it, rocking gently against Dean’s hip as his body tenses. Dean holds him close as his breathing steadies, the beat of Sam’s heart steady against Dean’s chest. Dean lets out a sigh as he kisses Sam’s damp temple and rests his head against Sam’s. 

He isn’t sure how long they laid like that, tangled together under their quilts, or if he fell asleep, but too soon Sam is moving again. He sits up and Dean listens as he pulls his t-shirt off and cleans himself up. “Here,” he whispers in the darkness as he hands the shirt to Dean and climbs off him, back to his side of the bed.

Dean slides the fabric under his waistband and wipes the mess from his skin as well as he can, then tosses it onto the floor next to the bed. He listens to the sound of Sam’s breathing as he tries to fall asleep but his mind is racing. The full weight of what they just did feels like it’s going to crush him. He wants so badly to be like they were, but he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to fully let Sam in again.

He doesn’t know if he will be able to face Sam come morning light.

  


**February 27, 1862**

Sam wakes to bright sunlight flooding through the lace curtains, painting delicate patterns onto the wooden floor of their room. Dean’s side of the bed is empty. He sits up and runs his hand through his hair, yawning as he looks around the room, he notices his t-shirt on the floor a few feet away, a crusty stain on the gray fabric. He lays back down and puts his hands over his eyes, rubbing them gently as his stomach twists with nerves. 

He can smell coffee brewing in the next room as he gets up and pulls on a clean pair of underdrawers and a shirt. Dean is in the tub, washing himself as Sam walks into the room. “Hey,” he says as he clears his throat. 

“Hey,” Dean says back without looking up. Sam grabs himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table as he takes a sip. 

“So,” Sam says as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure whether he should ever bring it up, “last night was uh-” 

“So help me, Sam, if you say ‘a mistake’-” Dean warns as he scrubs his shoulder with the soapy kitchen towel. 

“What? No,” Sam huffs, shaking his head, “it was um,” he pauses, trying to find the right word. After that feels like forever, he settles on “nice.” They are both silent for a moment, Sam watches Dean’s expression for any sign of his thoughts and hopes he didn’t say something wrong. 

After a quiet moment, Dean laughs out of nowhere and Sam is taken aback by his sudden reaction. “Nice?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks at Sam. Sam smiles down at his cup as he feels heat rising in his cheeks. 

“I guess that was stupid,” Sam laughs, “I’m just, I don’t know, happy? I guess,” he admits. They are quiet again as Sam sips his coffee and Dean scrubs himself clean. “Does this mean we’re okay?” Sam asks, forcing himself to look Dean in the eyes. 

“No,” Dean says as he looks up at him and his chest tightens. “I don’t know what we are, Sam. Am I mad at you? I guess not, I’ve had a lot of time to get over what happened. Does it still hurt? Yeah, Sam, it does. I spent so many years convincing myself that you didn’t feel about me the way I feel about you, and that I needed to move passed you. Move passed us,” he pauses for a moment as he looks down at his bath water, “and now suddenly it’s okay again? I should be thrilled,” he pauses again, “but it’s going to take me awhile to let you in again.” 

“I get that, Dean, I do,” Sam says, “and I’m so sorry.” 

“I know you are, Sammy” 

  


Later that night, Dean sits cross legged on their bed, his journal balances in his lap as Sam peels and chops potatoes for dinner at the table. He stares down at the blank page, debating whether or not to spill his confessions in black ink. He dips his pen into the ink bottle sitting on the quilt in front of him and brings it to the page. 

_February 27, 1862_ , he writes and then pauses to think. 

_I don’t know how to begin this entry._

_It’s been a week since my last update and- to put it lightly I suppose- things between me and Sam have… changed. Stuff was said, beans were spilled and parts of our past I struggled to bury deep are out in the open again and_

_I don’t know what to do._

_Last night-_

Dean swallows hard as he looks down at those words, black stains in stark contrast to the clean white page. _Last night_. He glances up at Sam, his back to him as he works, illuminated in the soft orange glow of the fire. His thoughts drift as he looks back down at the page. Sam’s body pressed to his, hot and heavy as he rocked himself against him. The low groan resonating through his body as Sam spilled between them. 

He dips the pen back into the ink and brings the tip to the page. 

_-was something I convinced myself would never happen again. Something I thought I’d only have in memories of better days. But when I look at him, I can’t help but hear his voice on the other end of the line, telling me about his plan for his future, the plan that didn’t have room in it for me. I went on with my life, if you could call it a life, and he did too. He was happy. I dragged him back into this mess that night, into a life he never wanted because I knew I couldn’t do it without him._

_I tried with Ben and Lisa, I really did. I went through all the motions, played the “loving dad” roll the best I could because that’s what Sam wanted, and I loved them, I still do. But I knew I would never be able to let them in completely, because I knew it wouldn’t last. Sooner or later Lisa would realize she could do better and find someone else, or I would end up with a bottle in one hand and my gun in the other again and this time not be able to stop myself._

_I’m trying to put the past in the past and move on, move forward… with Sam._

_I need him._

_But the road sure as hell isn’t smooth._


	15. March 01, 1862

**March 01, 1862**

Sam sits quietly across the table from Dean, pushing his breakfast of leftover potatoes around his plate with his fork. Over the last few days the silence of the house has been almost unbearable. When they did talk it was meaningless, empty conversations dancing around this huge thing between them. Every night, Sam lays still on the mattress in their silent room as he tries to fall asleep, listening for any signs Dean is still awake. The space between them feels miles wide, a great chasm of worn cotton sheets that Sam doesn’t dare cross first.

He waits for a touch or a word that never comes. Three days has passed since that night and it feels like an eternity to Sam.

“You know,” Dean says from across the table. Sam doesn’t even look up, too lost in his own thoughts to really listen. “I think I could actually kill someone for a big greasy burger, I think I’m to that point…” Sam nods in agreement, still rearranging his potatoes on his plate. “...I would do disgusting things for Chinese take out....” Dean’s words trail off as Sam’s thoughts flood his mind.

“... you there, Sam?”

He can’t do this anymore, he can’t sit by and hold his tongue while he waits for things to change on their own. His apologies are just empty words if he doesn’t explain himself to Dean, if he doesn’t let him know why he did the things he did. 

“She reminded me of you,” he says suddenly.

“What?” Dean asks, looking back at him with a confused expression.

“Jess,” Sam says quietly, “she reminded me of you.” He pauses for a moment, “I think that’s why I fell in love with her.” The confession twists his stomach with guilt. He never admitted it, not even to himself.

“Couldn’t get over me even when you tried, huh, Sam?” Dean says with a forced laugh. His default when confronted with the uncomfortable has always been to crack jokes, Sam knows this, but nothing about this is funny to him.

“The first time I met her she was wearing the same Zeppelin shirt you used to have, remember the black one?” Sam feels his lips curling into the faintest of fond smiles as he remembers that night at the party.

“The one you stole from me and wore to bed every night until you wore holes in it and dad threw it away?” Dean asks. Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him, watching him as he pokes at his potatoes.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a soft smile, “that one.” He swallows around the lump in his throat as he dredges up memories he tried so hard to forget. They are quiet for a moment, the fire pops next to them sending tiny embers floating up into the air above the table. “Her eyes were green like yours, Dean,” he says as he looks up at Dean, meeting his eyes briefly, “and in the summer she would get freckles on her cheeks. I’d kiss them and she would always laugh and pull me down to her lips-” Sam trails off as he looks back down at his plate. “She even had the same birthday as you.”

“You never told me that,” Dean says in a sympathetic tone, “you never told me any of this.”

Sam is quiet for a moment as he struggles with the truth buried deep, hidden even from himself for so long.”I didn’t want to admit what I really wanted was you,” he pauses, “more than anything, I wanted a life with you, a safe life outside of hunting, but I knew as long as dad was on his crusade I would never get it.” He takes a deep breath as he closes his eyes. “So I found the next best thing, in her.”

“Sam-” his name leaves Dean’s lips trailed by words left unspoken.

“I had the ring I bought for her in my jacket pocket when we went after that woman in white, I was going to propose after my interview,” Sam confesses. He can feel his eyes welling up as he speaks, he blinks as he looks up, forcing out a laugh at his own embarrassment over getting emotional as he wipes his eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean asks and Sam can’t look at him.

“I felt so guilty, Dean, and the way you acted like nothing happened, like you were completely over it,” he pauses as he sighs, “like you were happy,” the words feel heavy on his tongue as they leave his mouth, “I couldn't say anything. There were so many times over the years that I bit my tongue to keep myself from telling you how I still felt, because I didn’t want to lose you again.” He takes a deep breath. Saying the words out loud, baring himself to Dean in the last way he knows how, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted from him.

“I wish you could have had that life, Sam.” He hears Dean say quietly.

“It wouldn’t have been fair to her, I know that now. It would have never worked out, not for long.” He pauses for a moment as he pokes at the food on his plate, leaving the ‘ _I would always come back to you_ ’ unsaid. “Anyway,” he says with a huffed out laugh, “sorry about-” he trails off as he gestures in the air.

There is a long silence as they both look anywhere but each other. He stares down at his plate as he tries to think of something, anything to say.

“Hey, do you uh,” Dean says, breaking the silence as he scratches his beard, “you remember that job we worked, I don’t know, maybe five years ago? It was um, it was that bed and breakfast, I think,” he pauses for a moment as Sam tries to remember, grateful for the change in subject. “You got into the liquor cabinet and had the mother of all hangover the next day.”

“The one with the dolls?” Sam asks, his stomach turning at the memory.

“Yeah, the one with the dolls,” Dean nods with a smile.

“I still can’t drink Jager,” Sam groans, twisting his face in disgust. Dean laughs quietly with him until they fall into silence again.

“You tried to kiss me that night.”

Sam looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“You know,” Dean says as he nods, “I actually convinced myself you were too out of it to know what you were doing, that you were just desperate,” he pauses, “that it wasn’t real.”

“What did you do?” Sam asks, the whole night is a dark empty space in his memories.

“I put your drunk ass to bed and went to the bar to get a drink of my own. I went to work to get my mind off it,” Dean says as he leans back in his chair. 

“Here I was thinking I was doing such a good job at hiding it,” Sam smiles weakly as Dean takes a sip of his coffee.

“Well, I didn’t get it at the time, so you weren’t all that bad.” They fall into silence again, both lost in thoughts.

“Dean, I-” Sam says finally as he looks up at Dean.

“Yeah, Sam, I know.”

They finish the rest of their breakfast in silence but things feel different now. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind shared between two people with nothing to hide. Sam feels like he can breathe again for the first time in a long time as they clean up together.

…

The rain starts early that afternoon, it pours down onto the metal roof and drips through the tiny cracks in the ceiling. They set pots on the floor to catch the worst of it and settle in for a quiet afternoon as they listen to the soothing sound of the of the rain outside and the steady drip-drip- of the leaks.

Sam readies himself a bath as Dean reads through the first book of the first edition copy of Great Expectations Sam picked up for him as a late Christmas and birthday present last time they went to town. He smiles to himself as he watches Dean stare down at the pages while he waits for pot after pot of water to boil.

“Hey, I was thinking about building a small coop out by the horse shed,” Dean says as he closes his book, “we could get a couple of chicken for the season.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods as he stands, “that’s a good idea.”

He walks over to the fire and grabs the towel from the mantle. “I think chicks should be ready in a few weeks or so, we couple pick some up then.” He grabs hold of the hot handle of the pot of water and carries it from the fire to the tub. Steam rises around him as he pours it in. “I think it’s smart to be as self sufficient as we can,” he says as he sets the pot down on the floor next to the tub, “we don’t know how long we’re going to have to make what we have last,” he continues as he pulls his shirt off over his head.

“What about getting a couple of pigs too?” Dean asks as he sips his coffee, fiddling with the corner of the book’s cover absentmindedly as Sam steps out of his trousers. “I don’t think curing would be that hard, we’ve got the cellar already.”

“Do you know anything about curing meat?” Sam asks, sitting on the edge of the tub as he pulls his socks off.

“No,” Dean pauses as he takes another sip, “but I’m sure everyone in town does, we just need to utilize our resources,” he says with a grin, “plus then we could have bacon again, Sam. Sweet, sweet bacon.”

“Alright,” Sam says with a huffed out laugh as he strips out of his underdrawers, “we can start work on a pen for them when it stops raining.” He steps into the tub and sinks into the hot water. “It’ll give us something to do,” he says as he closes his eyes and relaxes against the warm metal edge.

Dean’s chair squeaks as he leans back, he’s quiet for a moment. “I’m glad you got to have the time with her that you did. She was there for you when I couldn’t be.” His voice is soft and Sam can hear the apology behind his words.

“Dad needed you, Dean, you did the right thing,” Sam says as he opens his eyes, Dean is looking down at the table.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel right,” he says as he pushes his chair back and stands. Sam watches him as he walks to the window, he sips his coffee as he looks out at the puddles forming in the dead grass.

“Hey,” Sam starts and Dean turns to look at him, “we’re here now, alive and together,” he says with a gentle smile, “that’s what matters.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says as he walks up to the tub, he leans down as he lays his hand against Sam’s cheek. He rubs his thumb gently against the stubble there as he looks down at him. “That’s what matters,” he repeats Sam’s words back to him as he presses their lips together.

  


The rain turns to snow as darkness falls and the temperature drops. It melts into the saturated land as the puddles grow and connect throughout the yard. The heat from the fire rising up to the ceiling melts what little snow can accumulate on the roof and the leaks continue into the night. Dean sits alone at the table as he looks down at the next blank page in his journal as firelight flickers across it. 

“I’m going to hit the hay,” Sam says from the doorway to the bedroom. 

“Okay, I’ll be in in a minute,” Dean says as he turns around in his chair to look at Sam and Sam nods. Dean watches as he disappears into the dark room. He turns back to his journal and dips his pen into the ink, then brings the tip to the paper. 

_March 01, 1862_

_It’s time to move passed this and be brothers again._

He sets the pen down and pushes the cork back into the ink bottle. The fire crackles and pops as he waits for the ink on the page to dry. After a few quiet minutes he shuts the journal and pushes his chair back as he stands. In the darkness of their bedroom he strips down to his underdrawers and climbs into their bed. They fall asleep that night wrapped around each other, bodies pressed together under the blankets and sleep better than they have in a very long time.


	16. March 02, 1862

**March 02, 1862**

Dean drifts in and out of consciousness surrounded by the comfortable warmth of Sam’s body wrapped around him. The sunlight behind the delicate lace curtains is obscured by thick, angry looking storm clouds, keeping their bedroom shrouded in darkness well into the morning. It isn’t until Sam stirs against him ever so slightly, letting out a content sigh against his bare shoulder that Dean wakes fully.

“Mornin’” Dean sighs as he closes his eyes again. He had been dreaming of a case, nothing special, just an average salt and burn. He and Sam were sharing beers on the hood, covered in dirt and grime as they watched the sun rise over the hills like they had done so many times before. Dean watched as Sam laughed against the mouth of his beer, his smile was mesmerizing and all Dean wanted was to kiss him.

“Good morning,” Sam yawns as he moves to sit up, pulling his arm away from where it was draped over Dean’s chest. Without a thought, Dean grabs hold of Sam’s hand to stop him.

“Wait,” he says quietly, turning his head back to meet Sam’s eyes, “not yet.”

“Okay,” Sam nods as he looks from his hand to Dean, holding his gaze for a moment as if waiting on a signal for what to do next. Dean swallows hard as he turns from Sam and lays his head back down on his pillow. Without hesitation Sam settles back down behind him, tucking his body around Dean and wrapping his arm back around Dean’s chest. Dean feels Sam’s hand take hold of his own as he laces their fingers together under the blanket. He closes his eyes again, his stomach turning with guilt.

Dean thought a lot about their talk yesterday, about what Sam said and why things happened the way they did. He realized after all these years, after all his hurt and anger, that he was wrong. He knew he owed Sam and apology but he couldn’t bring himself to say those two simple words and it was tearing him up inside.

“I get why you did what you did,” he says, breaking the silence of their room as he looks at the wall across from him. He pauses for a moment as he swallows around the lump in his throat. “We were just kids, and you wanted out of this shit storm of a life dad forced us into, a life we had no business being in, and I held that against you for so long.”

“Dean, you don’t have to-” Sam says softly against his shoulder, sending a chill through Dean’s body.

“Yeah, Sam, I do,” he cuts him off, pulling his eyebrows tight as he struggles to find the right words, “I realize now it was because you had the balls to leave and I hated myself for not leaving with you, for not being strong enough to make that decision. I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me most, so you found someone who could. What kind of a person blames someone for that? Someone they-” Dean breaks off, unable to say the word. He pauses for a moment as he feels Sam squeeze his hand, his stomach twists as he takes a deep breath and sighs. “I mean, what was I expecting you to do, put your life on hold while you waited for me? How fucking selfish. I feel like such an asshole for not seeing it before,” he pauses again as Sam rubs the calloused pad of his thumb against Dean’s hand. “You didn’t leave me, Sam, I left you.” His chest tightens with crushing regret as he says the words aloud.

Sam moves behind him and Dean’s eyes drift shut as he feels the softness of Sam’s lips press against his cheek just above his beard. “I don’t blame you for staying, Dean.” Sam’s breath is hot against his skin as he speaks, “and I don’t blame you for being angry.” The words melt into him, easing his mind and calming his nerves. Sam’s unwavering capacity for forgiveness always amazed and frustrated him, but now he was truly grateful for it.

Dean lets out a sigh as Sam kisses his cheek softly again and without a second thought, he turns his head to meet Sam’s lips. It’s soft and slow like the morning itself until Sam pulls away.

“So much for no chick flick moments,” he breathes out with a smile against Dean’s lips.

“Shut up,” Dean huffs out a laugh as he turns his body over to face Sam. He leans in and kisses him again. Their mouths move together with practiced ease while tentative hands wander exposed skin. Dean skims his hand up Sam’s side, studying every new curve and dip of muscle under his fingertips. His hand rests finally against the coarse stubble on Sam’s jaw as he cups his face, pulling him closer as he lays his apology on Sam’s tongue.

It takes everything he has to pull away from Sam’s lips, and when he does, he force himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “I want to try again,” he confesses, laying everything out on the table for Sam to take or leave. “If you want to.”

Before Dean can start to doubt himself in his moment of vulnerability, Sam’s lips curl into a soft smile. “Yeah, Dean,” he says as he cups Dean’s cheek, “I want to.”

Dean swallows hard as he nods, “okay,” he says, unable to keep from grinning.

“Okay?” Sam laughs as he nods too, matching Dean’s rhythm before leaning in to press his lips against Dean’s smile.

If someone asked Dean what his happiest memory was, he would lie and say the night he lost it to Amber Price in the backseat of his baby while listening to Zeppelin IV. Truth is, the memory at the top of his greatest hits is the night Sam kissed him, really kissed him for the first time. He was seventeen and it was the fourth of July. They snuck away and lit off fireworks alone in a field a couple miles outside of town. The two of them fell to the ground laughing, looking up at the stars as they caught their breath, then Sam kissed him.

That night changed everything.

But right now, pressed against Sam, Dean is happier than he has been in a very long time, like he can finally breathe again after forgetting how. 

“I missed you so much,” he breathes out as he rests his forehead against Sam’s.

“Missed you too,” Sam sighs, reaching up to brush his fingers through Dean’s hair, the touch sending a shiver through Dean’s body. Dean takes hold of Sam’s wrist, bringing his palm to his lips. The sound of rain hitting the roof above them begins to fill the room as he kisses Sam’s skin, work rough and warm. He moves, kissing up Sam’s long fingers slowly until he presses a final kiss to Sam’s fingertips. He can hear Sam’s shallow breathing as he wraps his lips around Sam’s index and middle fingers and slides down their length, pressing his tongue against them as he pulls back slowly, his eyes flicking up to meet Sam’s.

His eyes are dark and heavy as he looks back at him, the same eyes from faded memories of so long ago. Dean lets go of Sam’s hand and lifts the blankets as he climbs over, settling on Sam’s hips. He can feel Sam’s cock hard beneath his own and sends a rush of heat through his body.

“Hey,” Sam says as he looks up at him. His face is flushed, his lips red and shining and Dean wonders what good he did to deserve this, to deserve him. “If we’re going to do this again,” Sam continues as he rests his hand on Dean’s hips, “really do this,” he pauses, “I’m in it for the long haul, I’m not giving up on us without a fight.”

“I won’t either,” Dean shakes his head as he brushes his thumb through the hair on Sam’s chest, “I promise.”

… 

The grandfather clock in the main room strikes twelve-noon by the time they get out of bed. Dean smiles to himself as he pulls on a clean pair of underdrawers up his legs, the taste of Sam still on his tongue. A taste he could never forget.

Sam lets out a breathy laugh behind him and Dean turns around. “I owe you one, man,” Sam says, smiling as he shakes his head.

“Yeah, you do,” Dean grins as he pulls his henley on.

“No, but really,” Sam says, his voice suddenly serious, “thank you for that, for everything.”

Dean wants to make a joke but he knows what Sam really means, so he just nods, “it was the truth.” After a moment of silence between them, Dean gestures toward the door, “c’mon, sasquatch, I’ll make you lunch.”

  


Rain pounds against the saturated earth, turning half the yard into a shallow pond. Sam stands at the window, sipping his coffee as he stares out the rippled glass, watching the dark, angry sky. He takes a deep breath and sighs contentedly, he hasn’t felt this way since, well, it’s been years. The fire pops behind him, bringing him out of his thoughts. He sets his tin cup down on the table and grabs the fire poker from the wall. The smell of cooking onions fills the room as the potatoes sizzle away in the dutch oven hanging over the fire, a pot of water beside it. The back door swings open and cold wind blows through, making the fire flicker as Dean steps in from outside. 

“It’s really coming down out there,” Dean says as he shakes the water from his hair, his cream colored cotton henley soaked through. 

“Yeah, it is,” Sam nods as he pokes at the fire, “it’s a wonder we’re able to stay dry in here.” The bowls and pots under the leaks slowly fill with the steady drip-drip of water coming through the roof. 

“At least the outhouse isn’t flooded,” Dean says as he empties one of the bowls into the tub, “they were smart enough to build it on a hill,” he continues as he replaces it on the floor. Sam lets out a huffed laugh in agreement as he stands. “How are the potatoes doing?” Dean asks as he pulls his soaked shirt off his chilled skin. 

“Just about done, I think,” Sam says. He grabs the handle of the pot of simmering water and carries it over to the tub. 

“Good.” Sam hears Dean say as he dumps the water in. He sets the empty pot under one of the leaks and carries a full one back to the fire. Dean is standing there now, warming himself as he pokes at the potatoes. His damp skin shines in the firelight and Sam can’t help the soft smile that spreads on his lips. He steps up behind Dean and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, holding him close for a moment before pressing a kiss to the cold skin of Dean’s shoulder. 

“What’s that for?” Dean asks, his voice wavering slightly with an attempted laugh. 

“You look beautiful in the fire light,” Sam says against Dean’s skin then presses another kiss to his shoulder. 

“Fuck off,” Dean laughs as he turns around and shrugs Sam’s arms off, “you’re not going to get all mushy on me now, are you?” Sam looks at him, studying his features silently, redness is blooming at the tips of Dean’s ears and a flush is rising in his freckled skin. 

“Of course not,” Sam says as he leans in ever so slightly, “that would be ridiculous.” 

“Good,” Dean breathes out, his eyes dropping to Sam’s lips, lingering there momentarily, then back up to meet Sam’s eyes. Slowly, Sam closes the distance between them as he presses his lips to Dean’s. Sam’s hands skim the still damp skin of Dean’s bare hips as they kiss, holding him close against him. “The potatoes are going to burn,” Dean says against Sam’s lips, making him smile. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “yeah, right.” He clears his throat and takes a step back, letting go of Dean. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand then pushes the fallen hair from his face as Dean pulls the dutch oven out of the fire. 

  


Water boils in the fireplace as they eat their lunch of fried potatoes and onions with canned peaches on the side. Sam didn’t realize how hungry he was until he started eating, now he can’t seem to get enough. After they clean up together, Dean dumps the last pot of water into the tub, then strips out of his clothes and climbs in. 

“How’s the water?” Sam asks from the table where had been watching Dean as he sipped his coffee. 

“Just right,” Dean says as he splashes water onto his chest. “Want to get in with me?” he asks as he looks up at Sam with a grin. 

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks as he sets his coffee down on the table and scoots back in his chair, “you want me to get it with you?” Dean watches him as he walks up to the tub and stops. 

“If you want to,” Dean says, looking up at Sam as he cups himself under the water. 

“This tub right here?” Sam asks flatly, pointing down at the water, “the one that barely fits one of us?” 

“There’s room,” Dean says as he moves, lifting himself up as he scoots back against the edge. 

“If you say so,” Sam says as he pulls his shirt off over his head. He makes quick work of getting out of the rest of his clothes and climbs in. He settles in the water between Dean’s spread legs and moves forward, bracing himself with both hands on the edges as he leans in and kisses him. 

“See,” Dean says as Sam settles back against the foot of the tub and rests one of his ankles on Dean’s shoulder, “plenty of room.” Sam huffs out an amused laugh as they sit together in the warm water, listening to the storm rage outside. Thunder booms and lightning lights up the dim room through the windows as Dean relaxes into the water. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Sam says after a few minutes of silence. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks without opening his eyes. 

“What if we,” he pauses, “what if we just you know, stay here.” Neither of them had brought up how to get home in months, much less made an effort toward it. “I mean,” he continues, “it’s not ideal but, I don’t know, I’m,” he pauses again as he gathers his thoughts, “I’m actually happy here, now, with you. I can barely remember the last time I was really genuinely happy, Dean.” 

Dean opens his eyes, looking at Sam as he looks down at the water. Silence hangs between them as Dean thinks. He held out hope for so long that they would find a way to get home, he doesn’t know when it became more habit than anything, just him going through the motions he knew he was supposed to go through. What does he have to go back to? Either someone found a way to stop Eve or they didn’t, there is a good chance they might not even have a home to go back to. Sam has a point, here there are no angels, and they haven’t seen another demon in almost a year. There’s no apocalypse, no purgatory, no war to fight. They are in control of their own lives here, they can make their own destiny. Here they have a home of their own, it isn’t perfect but it is their’s and here he has Sam. 

Dean made the mistake of not starting a life with Sam the first time, he’s not going to screw it up again. 

“Okay,” Dean says and Sam looks up at him, like he didn’t hear right. 

“Okay?” Sam asks as he swallows. 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “the world can go on or end without us.” 

Suddenly he hears a crashing sound outside and they both shoot up. Dean glances at Sam with a nod as he stands. Water streams off his body as he climbs out of the tub and walks to the window, leaving a trail of water on the floor behind him. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swears, “the horses are out,” he says as he turns back to Sam. 

“Shit,” Sam says as he stands. Together they pull their clothes on over their wet skin and grab their boots and coats and head out into the storm. The horses toss their heads and winny wildly as they splash through the water around the house. Dean’s horse, who he lovingly calls Baby Two, stops for them almost immediately. Sam tosses a lead around his neck, “c’mon, boy,” he says in a calming tone as lightning lights up the sky around them. 

Dean soothes him with gentle hands and sounds as Baby stomps his hooves onto the saturated ground. “Got him?” Dean asks as he looks over at Sam. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, shaking the wet hair out of his face as he ties the rope around the horse’s neck more securely and pulls, leading him back toward the corral. 

Dean moves slowly toward Sam’s horse, still running around the house. “Hey, hey,” he soothes as he holds up his hands in surrender, “hey, shh.” The horse whinnies and tosses her head as she moves to run the other way. “It’s okay, hey, it’s okay,” Dean says and she stops, breathing heavy as he moves closer to her. “It’s just thunder, sweetheart,” he says quietly as he steps up beside her, “it won’t hurt you.” Careful not to startle her, he tosses the lead around her neck. “Woah,” he says as she rears up enough for Dean to back off but not drop the rope. 

“It’s okay,” he assures her, running his hand down her soaked coat, as she calms he ties the rope off. 

“Got her?” Sam calls out as he secures the gate to the run in shed. 

“Yeah!” Dean answers as he starts to lead her toward Sam. Once inside, Dean unties her and rubs her forehead lovingly then steps out of the gate. 

“Hopefully this storm won’t last too much longer,” Sam says through chattering teeth. 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, realizing just how cold he actually is as they walk back toward the house. 

Once inside, they shrug off their soaked coats and hang them on the chairs by the fire, then kick off their boots. They strip out of their wet clothes and lay them out as they shiver. Sam sets a couple more logs on the fire and it crackles to life, sending embers floating out into the room around him as Dean grabs as couple extra blanket out of the chest at the foot of their bed. Sam folds his arms in front of his chest, watching as Dean lays the blankets on their bed and pulls them back. 

“Come on,” Dean says, turning to face him, “let’s get warmed up before you get pneumonia again.” Sam lets out a huffed laugh and nods as Dean climbs into their bed. Sam climbs in after him, scooting close to the warmth of Dean’s body as they cover themselves with layers of blankets. Shivering, Sam lays his head against Dean’s shoulder and rests his hand on Dean’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall of Dean’s breathing under his palm. Dean lets out a content sigh as he wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder and pulls him close. 

Sam’s fingers brush absentmindedly through the trail of coarse hair just under Dean’s belly button as Dean closes his eyes. He feels Dean kiss the top of his head then rest his cheek against his damp hair. 

Before he knows it, he’s asleep as the storm rages outside.


	17. March 04, 1862

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty big chapter, so I hope it makes up for the long wait! 
> 
> Thank you for coming back!! I hope you enjoy this addition (also there is a little surprise at the end).
> 
> For those of you who are reading this without having read the recent reworks of the previous chapters, there have been a few changes, most importantly to this chapter: Dean didn't give up being sheriff, he has continued to hold that position for the last year. I just felt like that was a "Dean" thing to do.
> 
> (also sorry for any typos, I read through this so many times it all started blending together, I very likely missed some.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Heads Up** : One sentence mention of imagined bottom!dean in one part and a heartfelt discussion involving Dean’s nerves about bottoming in another on March 4th.
> 
> Mentions of past bottom!Sam and imagined bottom!Sam during frottage.  
> Also there is a bit of violence there at the end.

_March 03, 1862_

_We’ve almost made it an entire year, just another couple days to go. Never in a million years would I have ever thought we would be here this long, much less be here at all. But here we are, alive and well, making a life p ourselves… and quite a life it’s turning out to be._

_Sam is doing well, we are doing well… really well. Sam says he’s actually happy and I have to say, after everything he’s been through… You can’t imagine how much that means to me._

_We’re finally on the same page again, it’s been too long and it feels.... incredible. This seems stupid, I know, but I feel… I feel complete again. I feel whole, like a huge piece of me that’s been missing for so long is finally back in place and I’m alive again. Really alive._

_I just… he is everything to me, and I spent so many years trying to bury that, trying to go on like I was fine and it was so fucking stupid. We weren’t honest with each other and we spent almost a decade suffering with all this alone when we didn’t have to. We were right next to each other the whole time, one of us just needed to make the first move._

_But we can make up for it now with the time we have left._

_I will never make that mistake again._

  


**March 04, 1862**

Just before sunrise the rain finally stops. Sam wakes to the peaceful sound of birds chirping outside and bright sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains. He lays there quietly, Dean’s bare body is pressed against his back, his arm draped over his chest and he can feel Dean’s steady breaths tickling the hair on the back of his neck. Sam smiles softly against his pillow, grateful for this peaceful moment as he lets out a content sigh. After a few quiet seconds, he feels Dean move ever so slightly as he presses a gentle kiss to the skin of his neck then nestles in closer to him. 

“What do you want to do today?” he asks as Dean stills again.

“You’re looking at it,” Dean sighs and Sam smiles again as he closes his eyes.

“Now that the storm stopped, we should probably get started on clean up,” he suggests, “it’s a mess out there.” He would love nothing more than to stay in their warm bed all day with Dean wrapped around him, but they have work to do and as the days pass it isn’t going to get any easier. Dean groans behind him as he moves to sit up and Sam turns his head in curiosity. Suddenly, he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder as he rolls him onto his back and Sam laughs. He watches Dean climb over him and pull their blankets up over their heads as he settles on Sam’s hips.

“All work and no play, Sam,” Dean says with a grin as he leans in close and presses his lips to Sam’s. Sam’s fond smile fades as he opens up to him, moving to grip the back of Dean’s head as he feels Dean’s tongue against his own. They kiss under the blanket, slow and lazy until Dean pulls back and licks his lips.

“Shut up,” Sam laughs, looking up at Dean as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, “we haven’t done shit for days.” 

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, resting his hands on Sam’s chest as he sits back up straight, “I should get back into town too.” He rubs his thumbs gently through the hair on Sam’s skin as he looks down, “up for a trip?”

“Sure,” Sam says as he lays his hands on Dean’s hips. They stay like that for a moment as Sam watches his hands smoothe across Dean’s soft skin. He melts into the warmth of Dean’s body against his own as Dean looks down at him quietly. There is an electricity between them, humming just under Sam’s skin as he touches him. In this position, he can’t help his mind wandering as he grips onto Dean gently. His stomach muscles begin to tense as he imagines sinking deep inside Dean, holding him just like this as he- Sam swallows hard as he looks back up, locking eyes with Dean. 

“We should get going before-” Dean pauses, taking in a breath as he licks his lips again. Sam runs his hands down Dean’s bare thighs as he looks up at him, then nods.

“Yeah,” Sam says, letting out a shaky breath, “yeah, right.”

….

Their horse’s hooves squish in the fresh mud as they ride toward town. The sun shines over their heads and the air is just warm enough to be pleasant. Birds chirp happily in the trees around them, singing songs in the quiet early afternoon air as they pass by. “So, uh, about earlier,” Dean says out of nowhere and Sam looks over to him as Dean clears his throat.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, not sure where Dean is going, but he can guess. His mind wanders back to that morning, cozy in their bed with Dean resting on top of him, so warm and inviting.

“I, um,” Dean pauses as he rubs the back of his neck and Sam wishes he would just spit it out. “I just,” Dean continues, “I haven’t done that,” he pauses again, his emphasis on the word ‘ _that_ ’ gives Sam all the information he needs, “in um, a really long time.” 

Sam nods as he looks down, his mind racing with questions before he says, “been with a man, you mean.” It’s not so much a question as it is a confirmation. The thought of Dean’s first time being with someone else twinges Sam’s gut with a hint of jealousy crushed under a heavy layer of regret for not being the one to experience that with him. They never crossed that bridge together when they were younger, Sam guesses Dean just wasn’t ready yet. He hopes whoever it was made it good for him.

“What?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow, “no,” he shakes his head, “you’re the only dude I’ve ever,” he pauses.

“Fucked?” Sam asks, looking back up at him. 

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly as he shrugs and Sam’s stomach flutters with pride. “I mean, I don’t swing that way,” he insists as he looks over to Sam.

“I didn’t say you did,” Sam adds, shaking his head. 

“I know,” Dean says, looking back ahead at the road, “but what I meant was, after you left, I used to like to uh,” he pauses again and Sam lets out a sigh as he waits, “I used to like to get um, pegged?” he frames the statement with a question and waits for Sam’s reaction. Sam nods, careful not to show his surprise at the confession as Dean continues, “when I could find girls willing to do it. But I haven’t done anything like that in years, not since-” Just then, something in Dean’s demeanor changes, Sam can see his jaw clench tight as he looks ahead of him. They’re quiet for a moment as Sam watches him, unsure of what to say. “Anyway,” Dean says finally, looking up toward the sky as he takes in a deep breath.

“Hey,” Sam says. This sort of raw honesty and communication is a relatively new thing for them. It’s refreshing to be able to actually talk things out, instead of ignoring issues until they become fights. But there is something Dean isn’t telling him, something that hurts, and Sam doesn’t want to press it. “Dean,” he says as he leans over, reaching out to rest his fingertips on Dean’s thigh, “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“I mean,” Dean pauses as he takes another deep breath, “I want to,” he confesses with a huffed out laugh, Sam can see the deep crimson blush spreading on Dean’s ears under his hat and he can’t help the hint of a smile that spreads on his lips. “But not yet,” Dean adds as he finally looks at him and Sam nods. When Dean is ready, he will talk.

“Sure,” Sam says, his reassuring smile widening as he withdraws his hand, “whatever you want.” Dean nods his thanks as he swallows. They fall silent again, both lost in thoughts as they ride side by side down the muddy road.

“What about you?” Dean asks, breaking the silence between them again as he looks over to Sam.

“What about me?” Sam asks, genuinely unsure of Dean’s meaning.

“Have you been with other guys?” Dean asks out right and Sam takes in a deep breath, his first instinct is to avoid the truth, to dodge the question all together but honesty is a two way street and he owes it to Dean.

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah I have.”

“A lot?” Dean asks and Sam can hear the curiosity in his voice. Dean has always been interested in Sam’s sex life, pushing him to make moves on women here and there, but he never noticed when Sam flirted with men. He guesses Dean just thought he was being friendly, which was fine by Sam anyway.

“Depends on your definition of a lot,” Sam says with a laugh, “but there have been a few, yeah.”

“Are you like, into dudes?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow as he looks at Sam. 

“Some, yeah,” Sam nods as he readjusts his body in his saddle, “I’m just attracted to who I’m attracted to, you know? Gender has nothing to do with it.”

“Right,” Dean nods as he looks him over, “how come I never knew that?” 

“Basic obliviousness, probably,” Sam says as he gives Dean a smile, “it’s not like I hid anything, it just, never came up I guess.” Sam had been over this conversation in his head many times over the years. He always thought about what he would say if Dean ever noticed, or what Dean’s reaction would be when he did. He never imagined Dean would be upset by it or even very uncomfortable, but he has to admit, it’s going a lot easier than he thought it would have.

“Anyone I know?” Dean asks and Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he looks at the road ahead of them.

“Not really,” he says, “just a few people we met on cases, some guys I met on the road. One time things, mostly,” Sam adds then pauses as he thinks, “my old room mate at Stanford.”

“That demon shit head Brady?” Dean asks, “are you serious?”

“Well he wasn’t a demon at the time,” Sam says, looking over to Dean, “he was just, my best friend Brady,” he shrugs. He pauses for a moment as he looks back at the road, “he was the first one that wasn’t you.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, nodding as he looks ahead.

....

When they reach town, they turn their horses in at the stable behind the blacksmith’s shop and walk toward the main road.

“I know you think Return of the Jedi is your favorite,” Dean says with sigh as they walk down the boardwalk passed different shops and businesses, “but listen to me, Empire is a much better movie.” 

“Jabba’s palace? Cool. Luke’s new Jedi skills? Awesome,” Sam says, counting his points on his fingers, “the final battle between Luke and Vader, and the Emperor? Come on,” he continues, “Return of the Jedi is great.”

“Ewoks, Sam,” Dean says, looking over at him, “Ewoks.” 

“They were cute as a kid, okay?” Sam shrugs. Suddenly Dean stops in his tracks as he puts his hand out to stop Sam. Next to them on the window of the Inn is a painted sign advertising a photographer available through the weekend. 

“What do you think?” Dean asks turning to look at Sam with a grin.

“Sure,” Sam says with a smile, “yeah, let’s do it,” he nods. 

“Howdy, Sheriff,” the Innkeeper greets them as they walk into the dimly lit lobby.

“Howdy,” Dean says with a smile as he walks up to the front desk, “we’re looking for the uh, photographer?”

“Right through that door,” the Innkeeper answers, looking at them over his glasses as he points to the door at the far side of room. 

“Oh,” Dean says, turning around. Next to the door is a wooden sandwich sign that says ‘Tintype Photography’ in big white letters. “Right,” he says, turning back to the Innkeeper, “thanks,” he adds, tapping on the desk with his knuckles as he turns away. Sam knocks on the door and it opens almost immediately as an older woman steps out to meet them.

“Uh, hi,” Dean says as Sam looks her over.

“Greetings, sirs,” the woman says cheerfully, “looking to have your image captured?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says as he peers into the small room behind her, “do you have an opening?”

“Why yes, it just so happens that I do!” she says as she steps to the side, holding out her hand as she beckons them to enter, “right this way.” The room is decorated with a simple backdrop against the far wall framed by long velvet curtains that hang from the ceiling. Scattered around them are various props and chairs and everywhere Sam looks there is something new to see.

“I’ve got all you need for any kind of photograph you would like,” she says as they both look around.

“What do you mean, ‘kind’?” Dean asks as he runs his fingers down the velvet, “don’t people just sit for portraits?”

“Uh, yes,” the woman says as she closes the door behind her and steps into the room, “mostly. But some pairs do prefer a more,” she pauses as she looks them over, “creative image.”

Dean snorts as he looks over at her, “like what?” he laughs, “funny costumes?”

“There are some photographers who offer to take photographs of,” she pauses again, glancing over to Sam where he stands next to a tall, decorative table topped with a vase, “more affectionate poses, if you will.” Sam suddenly realizes what she is getting at and clears his throat as he turns to Dean.

“She’s talking about victorian erotica, Dean,” he says quietly. Dean’s face lights up as a wide grin spreads across his face. “No,” Sam says, shaking his head as he glances back at the woman, “no way.”

“Come on,” Dean insists with a smile and Sam can’t believe he’s even suggesting this.

“Dean, no,” Sam says, shaking his head, “we’re not,” he pauses looking over at the woman again as he lowers his voice, “Dean, that stuff was illegal, like really illegal.”

“Who are we going to get turned into?” Dean asks, “Rusty?” he laughs and Sam furrows his brow with a sigh.

“Do you take “erotic” photographs, ma’am?” Dean asks, turning to look at the woman as Sam lets out an exasperated laugh. Of all the stupid ideas Dean has had, and it’s a very long list, this one has to be right up there. 

“No sir, now that would be illegal, wouldn’t it,” the woman says, looking Dean over suspiciously as he walks toward her and stops. Sam watches him dig into his pocket and pull something out. 

“How about now?” Dean says as he places something in her hand, the woman looks down and back up with a smile.

“Well that changes things,” the woman says as she pockets what Sam can only assume is a sizable chunk of their very limited amount of money. Money that could be spent on keeping them alive and not paying for some kind of cowboy porn fantasy photoshoot for Dean.

“Are you serious?” Sam asks, folding his arms in front of him, “Dean, we need that money.” Dean turns to him and waves his hand in the air dismissively.

“Let’s say, we were in the market for something like that,” Dean says, turning back to the woman, “how would we go about keeping that, uh, between us?”

“I do all the processing and the finished product goes straight to the patron,” she says and Dean turns to Sam with a smile as the woman continues, “I’ve worked with many couples, men and women, all perfectly satisfied customers.”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean says as he walks back to stand next to him, “just one, for me.” He takes his hand and Sam sighs, he can see how much Dean wants this, and even if he doesn’t understand it he does want Dean to be happy. He glances at the woman again and back to Dean.

“Let’s just get a regular portrait done and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Deal,” Dean nods with a smile. 

“Do we just sit here?” Sam asks, pointing to the gold velvet upholstered chairs sitting in front of the backdrop. 

“Yes,” the woman says as she walks toward them, “that would work just fine.” Sam watches as she drags one of the chairs out of the way and sets it against the wall, leaving two next to each other. Dean shrugs out of his duster and throws it over one of the spare chairs along with his hat. He sits down as Sam pulls his jacket off and sets it down next to Dean’s and hangs his hat from a unlit sconce on the wall.

“Can we smile?” Dean asks as Sam takes the seat next to him.

“Most tend to view this as a serious occasion and their expressions reflect as much,” the woman says as she sets up her camera, “but you are welcome to do as you like.”

“Okay,” Dean nods as he scoots his chair closer to Sam’s.

“Got your pose?” she asks from behind the camera as she focuses the lens. Sam drapes his arm around Dean’s shoulder and Dean settles in against Sam’s side comfortably.

“Yeah,” Sam says, shaking the loose hairs out of his face, “I think so.”

“I’m going to get the plate ready, I will be right back,” the woman says as she leaves the room through a side door and shuts it behind her.

“We don’t have to do another one if you’re uncomfortable,” Dean says quietly as they wait, finally respecting Sam’s hesitance but Sam just sighs.

“It’s okay,” he says as he swallows, “we can do one.” The idea of letting a stranger in on a part of their lives that has only ever been for them feels strange, but underneath it all, Sam can feel the barest hint of excitement buried deep in his gut at the thought.

“Really?” Dean asks, turning to look up at Sam.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Sam says as he nods, “but I’m not showing anything,” he adds.

“Of course not,” Dean says with a smile as the door opens again and he turns to look.

“All ready,” the woman says as she steps back into the room holding the delicate plate carefully in her hands. The nervous excitement inside Sam grows as they watch her slide it into the camera and cover her head with the black sheet. She counts them down and they sit perfectly still as the shutter opens and light floods in. “And done,” the woman says after a few seconds as she closes the shutter and uncovers her head.

“Awesome,” Dean says as they both stand, “and we are going to go ahead and get one of those other ones,” he says then clears his throat, “if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!” the woman says, “you two get yourselves into the position you want and I’ll go get the next slide prepared,” she tells them as she heads for the door, “let me know when you are all ready.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says and she smiles at him then shuts the door behind her.

“Well,” Dean shrugs as he turns to look at Sam, “here’s to trying new things, huh Sam?” He reaches down and unbuckles his gun belt as he kicks off his boots.

“Sure,” Sam huffs out a laugh as he pulls his shirt and vest off over his head, the sudden change in temperature making him shiver, “nothing quite like getting naked for a stranger.”

“You’re not getting naked for a stranger,” Dean says as he slides his trousers and underdrawers down his legs then stands back up to look at him, “you’re getting naked for me.” Sam swallows as he watches Dean pull his shirt off over his head, the soft muscles of his torso stretch tight into long lines as he reaches up. He runs his eyes down the expanse of Dean’s bare skin in front of him and forgets for a moment where they are.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, bringing himself out of it as he pulls his own trousers down his legs, exposing his body to the cool air of the room. He cups himself instinctively as Dean sets their clothes to the side.

“So,” Sam says, “since this is your thing, how are we posing?” he asks as Dean turns back to him.

“I don’t want this to just be my thing, Sam,” he says as he steps up beside him, “I want something special, just for us.” He rests his hand on Sam’s lower back as he speaks and Sam takes in a deep breath. 

“What about that,” he asks after a moment, pointing toward the ornate stained oak table next to the wall.

Dean looks over then back to Sam, “that’ll work,” he says with a smile. Sam helps him carry it to the center of the backdrop and move the chairs out of the way. When the area is clear, Sam sits on the table’s edge as he thinks. After a moment, Dean walks up and settles his body between Sam’s spread legs.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says, resting his hands on Sam’s hips.

“I told you you have a fetish,” Sam says, his eyes flicking between Dean’s as he swallows.

“Shut up,” Dean smiles as he slowly leans in and catches Sam’s mouth. Sam reaches up, holding the back of Dean’s neck as he opens up to him. As they kiss, Dean’s warm hands roam Sam’s body until they settle on his ass and he gives him a gentle squeeze. Sam can feel his body begin to respond to Dean’s touch and breaks their kiss as he lays back against the table, holding onto the back of Dean’s neck as he pulls him down with him. 

He reaches an arm above his head as Dean’s hands slide up his sides. “How about this?” he asks, looking up at Dean as Dean rubs his thumb gently against his skin.

“Yeah,” Dean nods as he licks his lips, “this’ll work.”

“I think we’re ready,” Sam calls out as he adjusts his position on the table, the edge of it digging into his ass uncomfortably. He can feel the heat of Dean’s half hard cock against his hip as he arches his back, pressing himself against Dean’s body as he holds him.

“Okay, dears!” the woman calls back as she enters the room. Sam lays his head back, looking at the far wall as he listens to the sound of her setting up the camera again. He can feel Dean’s steady breaths, hot against his nipple and it sends shivers through his body as he waits. As the shutter opens, he concentrates on holding his breath until it’s finished.

“Okay,” Sam hears her say after a few seconds, “all done.” She leaves the room again and Sam relaxes. He looks up at Dean, watching as he presses his lips against him, kissing the skin just to the side of his nipple gently before working his way over. He presses a wet kiss there, sliding his tongue against him as Sam lets out a shaky breath. Dean presses his body against Sam’s as he works his mouth up his chest and Sam drops his head back down against the table. His breath hitches in his throat as Dean starts to rub himself against him.

“Not here,” Sam breathes out as his hips roll against Dean before he can stop himself, “we can’t do this here,” he says, looking back up at Dean as he licks his lips. It takes everything in him not to keep going. 

Dean drops his head down against Sam’s chest as he lets out a long sigh. “Yeah,” he says as he nods, “you’re right.” 

They get dressed together in silence for the second time that day.

....

“Come on,” Dean says, pulling Sam by the sleeve out into the street, “I know where to go.” Sam’s body buzzes with pent up energy as Dean leads him toward the jailhouse. As Dean unlocks the door, Sam glances around them, watching as townspeople go about their business all around them. He adjusts himself in his trousers, clearing his throat as he squeezes gently to relieve some of the aching pressure he feels there.

As Dean opens the door finally, he pulls Sam inside with him. “Well, hey there, Sheriff,” Rusty says from the desk against the far wall as they walk in, “wasn’t expecting you in today.”

“Hey, Rusty,” Dean says as he walks through the room, checking the cells for occupants quickly. “Why don’t you take a break, huh?” Dean says as he stops, “go get a drink or something,” he adds and Rusty looks at him with a look of confusion. “Tell Elkins to put it on my tab, okay?” 

“Well, I mean- ” Rusty starts as he stands.

“Me and Sam have some work to do,” Dean says, cutting him off as he rests his hands on his hips. Sam licks his lips as he watches them talk, his mind focusing on the aching need coursing through his veins and he wants nothing more than to feel Dean around him, on him, _in him_.

“If you say so,” Rusty says, pulling his eyebrows tight as he looks them both over.

“We’ll lock up when we’re done,” Dean says as he escorts Rusty out of the building. Sam watches as Dean shuts the door and locks it behind him. Without a moment of hesitation, Dean pushes Sam up against the wooden wall. He kisses him hungrily as he unbuckles Sam’s belt and pulls his trousers down, exposing his flushed hard cock to the empty building. 

“Dammit,” Dean groans as he fumbles with his own belt. 

Sam drops his head back against the wall, catching his breath as Dean’s gun belt falls to the floor. Doing this in Dean’s sheriff's office of all places makes Sam’s stomach jump with nervous excitement, he thinks about what would happen if someone found them like this and what they would do. What Dean would do. It doesn’t take long before Dean pulls his fly apart and pushes his trousers under his ass and suddenly all those thoughts are out of Sam’s mind as Dean’s bare cock is pressed against him again.

Sam lifts their shirts as he crushes their lips together, kissing him like he’s starving for it. He grips onto the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him into him as his tongue moves against Dean’s. They rock together at a steady rhythm, their too dry skin catches as the move and it’s just shy of uncomfortable but Sam won’t stop now. Dean hitches on of Sam’s legs up, holding it tight in his hand as he changes his angle and rolls his hips forward, sliding his cock against Sam’s again. He lets out a low groan and Sam feels it spread through his entire body.

Dean pulls back, his body going still as Sam catches his breath, watching as Dean spits onto his hand. “Fuck, Dean,” Sam groans as Dean wraps his hand around his cock. As Dean strokes him, he closes his eyes tight and drops his head back against the wall. He rolls his hips forward, pushing up into Dean’s fist as he moans against Dean’s neck. He can feel his cock pulsling in Dean’s hand as wetness begins to bead out of him, helping to slick the way as Dean works him. 

“That’s it,” Dean breathes out, “that’s it, sweetheart,” he says against his skin, kissing his neck as Sam’s body trembles against Dean’s.

“Oh God,” Sam whimpers, his hips jerk forward at the old pet name and he needs to feel Dean against him again. He reaches down and pulls Dean’s hips forward, pressing their bodies together as Dean lets go of him and braces himself with a hand on the wall beside Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s body feels like it’s on fire as Dean thrusts his cock against his. With each roll of Dean’s hips, he pushes Sam up the wall and Sam’s mind floods with memories of Dean inside him, filling him deep again and again as he thrust into him just like this and Sam feels his muscles clench with need. “Fuck me,” he breathes out as Dean moves against him at a hurried pace. “Fuck me, Dean.” Dean chokes out a low moan against his neck as he hits the side of his fist against the wall. “Just like that,” Sam whimpers and he can almost feel Dean inside him, a ghost of a memory still not quite enough.

“Feel so good, Sammy,” Dean groans against the heated skin of Sam’s neck as he moves, “feel so goddamn good.” 

Sam’s body begins to tense, he grips onto the fabric of Dean’s duster, whimpering as Dean gets him closer and closer. All at once he falls forward, his body contracting in waves as he comes, spilling between them again and again as Dean rubs against him. Dean pants as he stills his hips, resting his head against Sam’s shoulder as he runs his hand through the mess on the their skin, gathering it onto his palm. 

Sam catches his breath, eyes closed as he listens to the wet sound of Dean stroking himself against him. He swallows hard, his body still shaking as he drops to his knees. Dean’s hand stills, he lets go of his cock and drops his messy hand to his side. Sam licks his lips as he leans forward and takes a hold of the base. He runs his tongue up the underside of its flushed dark pink length making Dean groan as his hips jerk forward, sliding it against Sam’s lips. Dean pants above him and Sam can feel Dean’s heartbeat pounding against his tongue as he licks his mess from Dean’s skin. The taste of them blended together on his tongue makes the muscles in his stomach pull tight again and he needs more. He wraps his lips around the wet head and presses his tongue against it as he slides his mouth down it’s length. 

“Oh fuck,” Dean lets out a ragged moan as Sam swallows him down. “I’m close, Sam,” Dean pants as Sam pulls back. He strokes him fast as he works his lips over the head, sucking as Dean groans above him. Before Sam knows it, Dean is gripping onto his hair with his clean hand as he comes on his tongue. His cock jumps in his mouth, spilling again and again as Sam savors every drop. 

As the last of the spasms roll through Dean’s body, Sam presses a soft kiss just under the shining purple head of his cock, then another one just below that, and again and again until he reaches the velvety soft skin of Dean’s balls. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair as Sam kisses the flushed skin of Dean’s thigh. 

“You are perfect,” Dean says, his voice rough as he cups Sam’s jaw. Sam looks up at him, as he presses another kiss to Dean’s softening cock, “I hope you know that.”

Sam lets out a quiet laugh against Dean’s skin, “far from it,” he says, “but thanks.”

“I mean it,” Dean says as he rubs the pad of his thumb against the stubble on Sam’s cheek, “you’ve always been so good to me,” he swallows, “even when we went through rough times, I knew deep down I could always count on you.”

“You’re my brother, Dean,” Sam smiles, wiping his mouth as he looks up at him, “through thick and thin.”

“Through thick and thin,” Dean repeats as he smiles softly down at him.

“Besides, you’ve been right there for me too,” Sam says, “even when it felt like you weren’t, you always came back when it counted,” he pauses, “that’s what we do.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “that’s right..” He brushes his fingers through Sam’s hair, pushing it back from his face as Sam rests his head against Dean’s hip. They stay like that for a moment, silent in the room, the air around them thick with the scent of _them_. 

“Alright, come here,” Dean says, bringing Sam out of his thoughts as he pulls him up to him. Sam rests his hands on Dean’s beard as Dean kisses him, soft and gentle.

....

They clean themselves up make themselves presentable to the public as best they can before leaving the building behind. Dean locks up and together they head back to the Inn to pick up their photos. The woman hands Sam two delicate cardboard folders with gold filigree around the edge and they thank her for her time. He opens the first one and smiles, the two of them sitting side by side stare back at him, “look,” he says as he hands it to Dean.

“That’s awesome,” Dean grins as he looks down at the photo, “should we send this one to Bobby?” he asks and the thought hadn’t even crossed Sam’s mind. 

“Sure,” Sam nods, “we can add it to the package, I’m sure it would make his day,” Sam laughs. 

“What about the other one?” Dean asks, looking back up at him. Sam’s stomach flutters as he opens the other folder. He swallows as he takes in the quiet intimacy of the image in his hands. 

“Shit,” he says, raising his eyebrows as he looks down at it, “it’s,” he pauses, “it’s really beautiful, Dean.” Dean snorts out a laugh as he takes it from Sam’s hand, as he looks at it he goes quiet.

“Well shit,” he breathes out as Sam watches him, “told it was a good idea.” Sam huffs out a laugh as he nods, after all his protesting, Dean was right. This was something they would be able to treasure for years to come, something to remember the way they feel right now by. 

“To the post office?” Sam asks and Dean looks up at him.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Dean tucks the private picture away in his shirt and they wave to the Innkeeper as they head out into the street.

....

_For Bobby,_ Sam writes on the back of the first photo’s folder as Dean watches.

_We are doing well, still alive and kicking after a year. Hope you are too._

_Thanks for everything,_

_Sam and Dean, March 1862_

....

“I need a drink,” Dean announces as they walk out of the post office.

“Okay,” Sam nods, “I’ll go pick up the chicken wire and stuff then, so we can get back home at a reasonable time.”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, turning to him, “come with me, just one drink.” He takes hold of Sam’s jacket collar with both hands as he looks up at him and Sam can’t help but smile. “I have an open tab there still,” he says and Sam laughs.

“Not after Rusty’s done with it,” Sam grins and Dean smiles as he drops his hands, sliding them down the front of Sam’s jacket as he does. “Alright, let’s go.”

The doors swing open as Sam follows Dean into the dimly lit saloon. The air inside is thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of harsh alcohol. There are a few people at various tables around the room and Sam notices Rusty sitting at the bar, talking to the man next to him.

“Sheriff,” Elkins nods to Dean as they walk in, “deputy,” he nods again toward Sam and Sam smiles back. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to that.

“Got a drink for me and my deputy, here?” Dean asks as he takes a seat at the bar near the door, “we’re mighty parched.”

“Already, servin’ your other deputy,” Elkins nods toward Rusty as Sam takes the stool next to Dean, “it your day off or somethin’?”

“We’re celebrating,” Dean says as he slaps his hand against Sam’s back and Sam jumps, pulling his eyebrows together as he looks over at Dean. “It’s been one year since we moved to Sunrise.” Dean smiles and he looks so proud, Sam’s heart jumps as he watches him. He wants to kiss Dean’s smile, to hold him close and tell him how much he means to him again and again but he settles on gripping Dean’s knee under the bar as he offers him a soft smile. 

“Well in that case,” Elkins says as he grabs two glasses out from under the bar, “this round’s on me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Dean says, putting his hand up in protest as Elkins fills the glasses with amber liquid.

“I insist,” he says as he shoves the cork back in the bottle. “To another year,” he nods as he sets the glasses down in front of them, “and to many more after that.” 

“Thank you,” Dean says, lifting his glass toward Elkins in cheers. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “thank you,” he says as he lifts his glass too. _To many more after that_ , he thinks as he takes a sip, it burns like usual as he swallows it down. Sam feels himself smiling as he sets his glass back down on the bar. He just feels really good, warm and satisfied, and grateful. So very grateful for the gift he has been blessed with, he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but he is thankful nonetheless. 

“To us,” Dean says, looking at Sam as he raises his glass to him. 

“To us,” Sam repeats as he smiles at Dean.

There is a crashing noise behind them as the doors swing open and a man rushes in, they turn to look at him as he takes in a deep breath. “Someone’s robbin’ the bank,” he chokes out, “they kilt the teller!” 

“Come on,” Dean says as he stands, grabbing onto Sam’s sleeve as he pulls him toward the doors. “Dean’s let’s get out of here,” Sam insists as Dean draws his gun, “this is real,” he says, frantically trying to get Dean to listen, “this is real, Dean! We could die, you could die.” His heart is pounding as Dean peers out around the doors into the street.

“We can’t just leave, Sam,” he says, finally looking at him, “it’s my job.” And with that he disappears out the door. Sam takes a deep breath, his body shaking as he unholsters his own gun and follows Dean out into panicked street. 

Gunshots ring out, echoing through the buildings as the men try to escape the bank. Sam plasters his body against the side of a building, shielding himself from stray bullets as Dean calls out his name. Sam swallows hard, then looks around the corner, one of the men is in the top window, firing on the crowd and Sam takes aim. 

He takes a deep calming breath in and exhales slowly as he lines up. In quick succession, he fires off three shots, one of which he thinks hit the man because he falls back into the building. Dean calls his name out again and Sam looks around the corner to try to find him. “In here!” Dean yells as he gestures from the doorway of the building just ahead of him. Sam lets out a breath as he nods, he waits a moment for a break in the gunfire and takes off running. He reaches the door safely and rushes inside. Dean wraps his arms around him in a quick hug, checking to see if Sam is hurt or not. “I’m okay,” Sam breathes out as Dean looks him over, “are you?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says as he drops his hands, “come on.” He gestures with his head toward the stairs and Sam follows him. They make their way up to the second floor balcony as shots ring out around them. The two of them shield themselves behind the log supports and begin firing toward the men trying to escape. 

Shots wiz past Sam, he can hear the air moving as they hit the building all around them. He focuses on the job, trying to end this as quickly as they can so they can go back home, safe. As he takes aim, he hears Dean let out a sharp groan behind him and he turns to look. Dean is holding onto his shoulder and Sam can see blood. And with that, all that matters to him is getting to Dean. 

He moves, stepping away from his shield momentarily and then it happens. He feels a deep pressure, like someone punched him in the gut. It knocks the wind out of him as he falls to his knees. Everything around him slows, all he can hear is the deafening ringing in his ears as he sees Dean yelling something at him. He blinks, reaching out his hand to tell Dean to stay where he is, but nothing comes out. He can see blood smeared on his outstretched hand and he looks down at himself where he can feel heat spreading through his abdomen. 

There is a jagged hole in his vest and a deep crimson stain growing on the fabric. His world comes crashing down around him as he realizes he has been shot. He blinks as he looks back up to Dean as Dean reaches him. He pulls Sam against his chest, holding him tight as he fires his gun over Sam’s head.

....

Sam wakes to an intense, all consuming pain in his gut and his entire body is shaking violently. He cries out in agony as he tries to sit up but firm hands hold him in place. “Sam,” he hears Dean’s frantic voice above him, “oh God, Sammy.” Gentle hands are touching his face, smoothing against his skin as sharp pain shoots through him. He feels like he’s being ripped apart from the inside out as he body convulses.

“Fix him!” he hears Dean yell as his body succumbs to shock and he fades out again.

  


_*Original manip by the wonderful[travellerintime](http://travellerintime.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. [Here](http://travellerintime.tumblr.com/post/6141750938/while-the-angels-are-watching) is a link to the original_


	18. March 05, 1862

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's been so long and that I left it hanging like that. This update is really short, but I just wanted to give you guys a little bit of closure on what happened at the end of the last chapter. When I update again it will be to add more to this chapter probably, but I can't tell you when that will be. 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who have been following this story and put up with my terrible updating, you are all beautiful and I love you. And thank you to those who even gave this story a chance, it really means a lot to me, this story is my baby.

**The early morning of March 05, 1892**

The small room is deathly quiet, the doctor and his staff long since gone for the night. Dean listens intently to Sam’s shallow, slow breaths as he sits next to the bed. The sharp sting of the stitches in his bicep nothing compared to deep ache in his chest. The doctor’s last words to him swim though his mind, breaking his heart and filling him with rage all over again. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he had said as he wiped Sam’s blood from his hands as if it was something dirty and not precious to Dean. “He likely won’t make it through the night, in his condition. He’s in God’s hands now.” Dean lost it at that, grabbing hold of the doctor’s collar as he pushed him up against the door. After that they were left alone. 

‘He’s in God’s hands now,’ echoes in his tired mind as he adjusts his grip on Sam’s slack hand. The sentiment would be comforting to some, but it’s all but a death sentence for Sam. When has God ever been there for them. Dean drops his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears coming now. After all they have been through, against all logic he still holds onto a tiny glint of hope, Sam’s hope. He lifts his head, blinking as he looks up to the plastered ceiling, “please,” he all but begs as tears stream down his cheeks, “please.”

He waits silently, for something, anything, but nothing comes. Nothing ever comes. Wiping the tears from his face with the palms of his hands he nods as he swallows. “We’ve been through worse, right, kid?” Dean says to himself more than anything, letting go of Sam’s hand as he stands. He quietly pulls his gun from its holster, “gunshot wounds are nothing,” he says as he loads a single round into the cylinder, “hell, we’ve come back from them before.” 

He’s at the end of his rope, dangling over a hellscape of a life without his other half. The only half that matters anything. He can’t do it again. 

Carefully, he climbs onto the small bed, lifting the blankets as he curls against Sam’s still body, bare skin to bare skin. He presses a soft kiss to Sam’s cheek, gently brushing his lips against the stubble there, then lays his head down against Sam’s shoulder. He watches the almost undetectable rise and fall of Sam’s bare chest, Sam’s life, fading before his eyes. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” he says quietly, his voice breaking as he runs his fingers through the soft hair on Sam’s chest. Hoping Sam can hear him somehow, hoping he can feel him. ‘And I’ll be right there if you don’t,’ he thinks as he chest tightens. Soon, exhaustion gets the better of him as his eyes fall closed and he drifts to sleep.

Sam passes quietly early that morning, wrapped in Dean’s arms.

  


He comes to with a deep breath, filling his empty lungs so suddenly he chokes. His eyes snap open as Dean shoots up next to him, his eyes wide as he looks at him. He gasps again, coughing as he struggles to breathe. “Hey,” Dean’s voice is shaking as he lays a hand his chest, “shit,” he says as he moves to get off the bed. 

“Wait,” Sam chokes out as he sits up. 

“Hey, don’t move,” Dean soothes as he presses against Sam’s chest gently to get him to lay back, “I’m going to get the doctor.” 

“No,” Sam groans, “I’m-” he pauses as he moves his hand over the bandages on his abdomen, “I’m fine-” it’s a question more than a statement. Confused, he looks back up at Dean. 

“What?” Dean asks, looking him over with worry written all over his face. Sam carefully pulls the bandage down, revealing stitches in his unmarked skin. “You’re fine?” Dean’s voice sounds as breathless as Sam feels. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “yeah, I think so-” Dean’s lips are on his before he can finish his thought, his hands cradling his face as he kisses him like he’s desperate to get as much as he can before it’s gone. Sam kisses him back, bringing his hands up to rest on Dean’s jaw as he dips his tongue into Dean’s waiting mouth. 

“I thought I lost you,” Dean breathes out against Sam’s lips, “you were dying, Sammy.” Sam pulls his eyebrows tight together as he kisses Dean again, the last thing he can remember is being so scared. Terrified of leaving Dean, of never seeing him again. “You were dying and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.” He can feel the heat of Dean’s tears on his skin and it breaks his heart. 

“Hey,” Sam says as he catches his breath, “hey, I’m here.” He kisses Dean again, softer this time, reassuring him he’s not going anywhere, “I’m here.” 

  
...  


“What the fuck happened?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulls his boots on, “was it a reaper?” The memory is fuzzy, barely there like a half forgotten dream. 

“Yeah,” Sam nods, pulling his trousers up his legs, “I think so.” 

“Do you remember anything?” Dean asks, looking up at him, his eyes searching Sam’s face as he thinks. The only thing he can remember clearly are a few words spoken softly, just before he woke up. 

“She said we still have work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, you made it through this far! Thank you so much, I hope you liked it!


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